GENTLENESS. 


THE 


TRUE       PATH; 


AND 


to  pal 


EDITED  BY 

T.      S.     ARTHUR. 

h 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN    W.    LOVELL    COMPANY 
150  WORTH  STREET,  CORNER  MISSION  PI.A.CK 


Copyrighted  by 
HUBBARD  BROTHERSo 

1888. 


An 


PREFACE. 


To  make  the  vision  clearer,  arid  the  way 
plainer  for  all  who  are  seeking  the  true  path,  is 
the  purpose  of  this  volume.  The  editor  has 
sought  through  means  of  poem,  allegory,  sermon, 
essay,  and  lighter  narrative,  to  lead  the  earnest 
thinker  into  a  just  appreciation  of  social  and 
moral  duties — for  no  man  can  walk  safely 
through  this  world,  who,  through  neglect  of 
these,  lives  in  cold  indifference  to  his  neighbour's 
good.  The  true  path  is  the  path  of  self-denial ; 
yet  none  enter  this  path  who  do  not,  sooner  or 
later,  find  that  the  way  is  smoother  than  was 
expected,  and  that  instead  of  leading  through  a 
desert  land,  it  winds  pleasantly  amid  flowers  and 
greenness. 

(9) 


M270365 


CONTENTS. 


POVERINA, Page  7 

FILIAL  LOVE  REWARDED  ......  .18 

THE  ADOPTED  CHILD t         .26 

DON'T  RUN  IN  DEBT 33 

LITTLE  THINGS — TUB  INDEX  o?  CHARACTER    ....       34 

THE  HAPPY  LOT .        .38 

LABOUR 39 

THE  SEARCH  FOR  HAPPINESS  .......       4'2 

FRUITS  OF  SORROW 60 

THE  Two  BEES G7 

SPEAK  KINDLY 70 

TELL  OF  THEIR  VIRTUES 73 

THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN         .......       70 

THE  BEAUTIFUL       .        . 11 2 

THE  GENII  OF  THE  GOLD  MINES Ill 

ADA'S  LIFE  ROMANCE       .         .        .         .        .        .        .        .1122 

THKRK'S  WORK  ENOUGH  TO  DO        .        .        .        .        .        .137 

THE  STEP-DAUGHTER        .         .        .        .         .         .         .         .139 

OH,  WATCH  YOU  WELL  BY  DAYLIGHT UO 

FIRESIDE  AFFECTIONS       .         .        .        .        .        .         .         .147 

WOBK  FOR  HEAVEN          .        .        .        .        t        .        .         .152 

SPIRITUAL  BEAUTY 153 

Do  GOOD ....     107 

OCR  DAILY  LIFE      .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .108 

(5) 


vi  CONTENTS. 

ANGELS  IN  THE  AIR 175 

BLESSED  ARE  THE  MERCIFUL 176 

RUB  OR  RUST 189 

TALE-TELLING 190 

BEAR  ON,  BEAR  BRAVELY  ON 207 

«'  BLESSED  ARE  THE  BELOVED  !" 208 

THE  LEGEND  OF  BROTHER  ALFUS 210 

How  TO  BE  HAPPY 217 

HE  GIVETII  HIS  BELOVED  SLEEP      .         .         .         .         .         .218 

RELY  ON  YOURSELF 219 

GOD  is  LOVE 225 

THE  RELATION  OF  BROTHERS  AND  SISTERS       ....  226 

"FREELY   YE    HAVE    RECEIVED,    FREELY   GlVE"             .            .            .  236 

THE  FRIENDS 237 

WORDS 248 

THE  MERCHANT'S  SON      ........  249 

LINES  IN  MEMORY  OF  MY  LOST  CHILD 266 

CATHARINE  BLOOMER 269 

KEEP  THYSELF  PURE 290 

"  THE  ANGELS  WITH  us  €NAWABB§W 292 

SABBATH  EVE 296 

SPARE  MOMENTS 298 

THE  BURDOCK  AND  THB  \ioun      ......  W9 


THE  TRUE   PATH. 


P  0  V  E  R I  N  A. 

AN  old  mechanic  lay  upon  his  death-bed.  He  had 
lived  an  honest,  pure,  and  blameless  life,  and  therefore 
awaited  death  with  calm  resignation. 

He  cast  his  eyes  about  him — the  house  was  old,  yet 
well  built — it  wasf  filled  with  the  comforts  supplied  by  a 
moderate  income.  The  lands  were  well  tilled  and  rich 
in  a  summer  verdure. 

The  old  man,  as  he  thought  how  old  companions  had 
grown  wealthy,  built  fine  houses,  and  bought  herds  and 
jewels,  smiled  meaningly  as  he  had  done,  when  his  old 
cronies  cried,  "  Why,  Hubert,  man,  thou  must  make  more 
than  thy  expenses." 

As  the  first  shudder  of  death  crept  over  his  soul,  he 
called  unto  his  bedside  three  daughters,  all  young,  fair, 
and  sensible. 

"  My  beloved  ones,"  he  whispered,  "  I  have  passed 

(7) 


POVERINA. 


my  youth  and  later  years  in  endeavouring  to  find  the 
best  way  to  live — I  have  found  it  in  moderation.  You, 
I  cannot  expect  to  be  satisfied  with  my  experience.  You 
shall  judge  for  yourselves. 

"  When  I  commenced  to  grow  rich,  I  looked  around 
me.  Some  friends  had  become  wealthy  in  advance. 
They  bought  and  built,  added  luxuries  to  comforts  and 
replaced  comforts  with  show.  They  were  never  satisfied  ; 
always  grasping,  hoping,  wishing  for  more.  I  owned 
my  farm.  My  business  was  prosperous.  I  founded  a 
scheme  I  then  believed  the  height  of  wisdom.  I  dug  a, 
trench  in  my  cellar  and  placed  therein  all  my  overplus 
funds.  It  is  astonishing  how  fast  they  multiplied ;  but 
I  cared  not  for  them.  I  had  the  means  of  living  like  my 
neighbours,  and  this  rendered  me  satisfied. 

"  I  feel  now  that  this  gold  could  have  done  much  good 
in  the  world.  I  have  retained  bread  from  hungry 
mouths  and  clothing  from  suffering  bodies.  We  have  no 
right  to  hoard  money ;  justice  and  right  require  that  it 
be  constantly  passing  and  exchanging,  that  the  poor 
may  catch  a  glimpse  of  it,  or  the  necessaries  it  brings 
them.  I  leave  to  you,  my  children,  the  distribution 
of  my  earnings.  Take  it — seek  ye  each  one  the  hap 
piest  life." 

Soon  after  the  old  man  expired. 

Kis  daughters  truly  grieved  for  so  estimable  a  parent. 

Three  years  after  his  death,  they  sat  alone  in  the 
Bitting  room.  The  sun  shone  through  the  elm  branches, 
and  imaged  a  shower  of  golden  coins  upon  the  painted 
flx>r. 

Reichen,  the  eldest,  gazed  upon  them  musingly. 


POVERINA. 


9 


"Sisters,"  she  exclaimed,  starting  from  a  revery, 
"  the  great  wealth  our  father  left  us  still  lies  buried  in 
the  earth.  His  last  wish  is  unfulfilled.  Let  us  this  day 
choose  our  path  and  follow  it.  We  can  divide  the  gold, 
take  each  her  portion,  and  commence  a  search  for  hap 
piness." 

"  I  agree,"  replied  Parnassa.     "What  say  you,  little 

one?" 

"  Our  father's  wish  should  be  fulfilled,"  answered  the 

youngest. 

"  Let  us  then  make  our  choice,"  cried  the  enthusias 
tic  Reichen. 

"  Commence  then  ;  thou  art  eldest." 

"  Well,  I  will  seek  the  rich  and  fashionable,  the  lovers 
<yf  fun  and  frolic,  the  leaders  of  mirth.  They  have  always 
appeared  to  me  happy  as  the  day  is  long." 

"And  thou,  Parnassa,"  said  the  younger. 

"  I  will  remain  here  in  our  old  home.  I  will  seek  for 
knowledge  and  fame.  Those  whose  name  trembles  on 
every  lip  with  praise,  must  be  supremely  happy.  I  will 
exchange  all  my  gold  for  a  laurel  wreath." 

"  Choose,  our  little  one." 

"  I  would  try  a  lower  path — a  descent  is  often  happier 
than  an  ascent.  It  is  easier  to  rise  than  fall." 

The  sisters  shook  their  heads  and  answered,  "Thou 
hast  chosen  badly,  Poverina.  Reconsider,  there  is  yet 
time." 

But  she  smiled  faintly  and  was  steadfast. 

All  that  week  they  passed  in  counting  and  dividing 
the  gold;  the  next  in  making  preparations  for  their 
departures. 


10  POVERINA. 

One  bright  morning  Reichen,  dressed  in  silks  and 
jewels,  stepped  into  an  elegant  carriage ;  her  gold  was 
in  handsome  trunks  in  the  boot ;  a  liveried  servant  held 
the  reins,  and  another  closed  the  door.  As  far  as  the 
other  two  could  see  her,  her  gay  bonnet-plumes  waved  in 
the  air,  and  her  laced  pocket  handkerchief  fluttered  a 
last  farewell. 

An  hour  after  little  Poverina,  in  a  gray  hood  and 
coarse  blue  gown,  passed  out  on  foot.  She  dragged  be 
hind  her  a  little  wagon  filled  with  her  share  of  the 
treasure,  and  covered  ostensibly  wifti  carrots  and  cab 
bages  for  the  market. 

Parnassa  watched  the  last  fold  of  her  dress  as  she 
turned  down  the  hill,  and,  wiping  away  her  tears,  cried, 
"  Now  for  books,  books ;"  and  went  into  the  house,  closing 
the  door  after  her. 

***** 

Ten  years  had  passed  since  the  sisters  parted.  The 
day  had  arrived  upon  which  they  had  agreed  to  meet 
once  more.  In  the  old  homestead  all  was  unchanged, 
but  that  it  looked  grayer  and  more  neglected.  In  the 
well-remembered  sitting-room  all  wore  a  different  aspect. 
Statues  filled  the  niches,  flowers  breathed  odours  com 
mingled: — books  lay  upon  chairs,  tables,  and  window- 
seats — books  everywhere.  At  a  desk  filled  with  writing 
materials  sat  Parnassa,  a  laurel  wreath  was  upon  her 
brow ;  but  that  brow  was  livid,  and  the  eyes  beneath  it 
dim  and  lustreless.  Changes  had  been  wrought  on  the 
finite  here. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  strange  .figure  entered  ;  a 
woman  bowed  and  shrunken.  Her  still  luxuriant  hair 


POVERINA.  11 

was  threaded  with  silver,  and  shone  through  the  artifi 
cial  ringlets.     The  rouge  upon  her  cheek  and  lip,  the 
carefully-pencilled  eyebrow  and  richly-fashioned  robe, 
could  not  conceal  the   ravages  of   dissipation,    or   the 
meagre  form,  grown  old  before  its  time. 

"  Reichen,"  cried  Parnassa. 

"Parnassa,"  replied  the  mummy;  and  the  sisters  ex- 
changed  embraces  in  silence — too  wonder-stricken  for 

O 

words. 

At  this  moment  a  little  gray  hood  peeped  in  at  the 
door.  The  face  therein  was  fresh  and  youthful,  the  form 
round  and  the  step  elastic.  Were  not  the  cheeks  much 
paler  than  of  yore,  the  sisters  would  have  thought  that 
Poverina  had  not  changed  in  the  least  since  their  sepa 
ration. 

"  Sisters,"  she  cried,  hastening  to  greet  them,  "  God 
has  permitted  us  all  to  live  to  meet  once  more,  blessed 
be  His  name  !" 

When  they  were  composed,  they  seated  themselves, 
and  prepared  to  recount  each  their  progress  toward  hap 
piness  during  their  ten  years'  search. 

Parnassa,  being  the  one  who  remained  at  home, 
and  believing  her  life  less  eventful  than  her  sisters',  com 
menced — 

"  When  my  tears  had  ceased  to  flow  at  your  depar 
ture,  1  came  into  the  house,  and  taking  a  quantity  of 
gjld,  sent  it,  with  a  list  of  books,  by  Gottlieb,  to  the 
city.  By  the  next  day,  a  large  car  of  these  valuables 
arrived.  I  had  shelves  placed  around  my  room,  and 
filled  thorn.  I  then  procured  one  thousand  reams  of 
paper,  four  gallons  of  ink,  and  a  huge  box  of 


12  POVERINA. 

Thus  supplied,  I  commenced  writing  and  reading,  leav 
ing  to  Gottlieb  and  Hanna  the  domestic  avocations.  I 
spared  myself  neither  time  nor  pains.  I  wrought  early 
and  late.  I  lost  sleep,  took  no  exercise,  and  scarcely 
allowed  myself  time  to  partake  of  my  meals. 

"  When  my  first  work  was  finished,  with  many  hopes 
and  misgivings  I  published  it.  It  pleased  the  public, 
that  public  whose  name  is  legion,  and  whose  voice  is  life 
or  death.  That  public,  so  feared  by  a  debutante 
authoress,  was  pleased  to  shower  upon  me  ;»,  »lden 
opinions.  They  cried  for  my  name.  It  was  givon.  I 
was  inundated  with  invitations  and  congratulations.  I 
wrote  again  and  again.  I  drank  a  full  measure  of  fame  : 
but  in  the  empty  goblet  found  no  solace.  I  had  worked, 
toiled,  eight  years  for  this  laurel  wreath :  but  when  it 
became  mine,  and  action  was  no  longer  necessary  to 
secure  it,  life  was  all  a  blank  page.  Money  filled  the 
old  vault  in  the  cellar,  but  all  was  lonely.  There  was 
no  one  to  love  me  :  no  one  for  me  to  love.  Unsatisfied 
I  lived — and  longed  to  die,  hoping,  in  another  life,  to 
find  that  rest  I  longed  for.  My  health  is  impaired  from 
constant  sedentary  habits  and  late  vigils.  I  must  now 
care  as  much  for  my  ailing  body  as  I  have  heretofore 
neglected  it. 

"  I  hope,  dear  Reichen,  that  your  history  will  not  be 
BO  sad  in  its  termination.  With  me  the  belief  lies  that 
there  is  no  happiness  on  this  earth.  The  endurance  ia 
here,  the  happiness  in  Heaven." 

Reichen  shook  sadly  her  withered  head. 

"  I  drove  far  away  from  you,  my  sisters,  to  a  distant 
city.  I  put  up  at  the  largest  and  most  imposing  hoteJ 


POVERINA.  lb 

h.  appearance.  The  splendour  of  the  interior  of  thia 
house  quite  dazzled  me.  There  were  many  articles  that 
I  did  not  know  the  use  of,  nor  did  I  ever  learn  that  they 
were  put  to  any  useful  purpose.  At  the  table,  I  met 
ladies  in  elegant  attire.  There  was  a  preponderance  of 
jewelry  about  them,  and  a  want  of  appropriate  selec 
tions  for  different  forms  and  complexions.  At  the  table, 
1  was  handed  'a  bill  of  fare.'  I  think  I  am  right,  in 
the  term.  There  were  many  French  words  thereon, 
quite  puzzling  to  one  unacquainted  with  the  language, 
but  I  managed  to  get  through  the  courses  very  well 
until  I  arrived  at  the  dessert.  A  gentleman  beside  me 
had  a  dish  of  a  most  delightful  appearance,  and  I 
wished  for  some  also.  But,  study  my  bill  as  I  would, 
there  was  nothing  that  read  as  that  appeared.  I  made, 
however,  a  bold  stroke ;  and,  pointing  to  an  unpro 
nounceable  name,  I  requested  a  waiter  to  bring  me 
some  of  that.  It  was  a  failure.  I  tried  another  and 
another;  but,  at  length,  frightened  at  the  untouched 
dishes  surrounding  me,  I  desisted,  and  left  the  table. 

"  Having  nothing  to  do  but  to  amuse  myself  and 
assist  many  others,  with  whom  I  became  acquainted,  in 
passing  the  time  as  rapidly  and  giddily  as  possible,  we 
walked  out.  I  dressed  as  they  did,  in  a  most  peculiar 
style.  My  robe  of  heavy  silk  dragged  upon  the  ground. 
The  day  was  muddy,  and,  to  avoid  being  thrown  down, 
I  followed  the  example  of  those  I  met.  I  gathered  my 
e  in  my  hands,  displaying  not  only  my  elaborately 
embroidered  skirts,  but  the  new-fashioned  gaiters  then 
in  vogue.  I  suspected,  afterwards,  that  many  of  the 
ladies,  accustomed  to  long  robes,  held  them  on  high  for 


14  POVERINA. 

the  especial  purpose  of  displaying  their  high-heeled 
Chinese  junks ;  for  they  were  so  dear  in  price  as  to 
enable  ladies  only  to  purchase  them.  My  bonnet  was 
a  Lilliputian,  and  stuck  on  to  the  back  of  my  head  with 
a  wafer.  My  mantle  was  embroidered  in  Paris,  and 
represented,  in  crimson  thread,  a  family  seal:  a  lion 
rampant  on  green  fields,  thirteen  crosslets,  and  a  tur- 
bot's  head.  I  carried  in  my  hand  a  '  lachrymal,'  made 
of  cobweb,  just  patented.  Thus  equipped,  I  walked  01 
rode  daily.  Our  carriages  were  made  of  a  species  of 
quicksilver,  so  shining  and  glasslike  that  they  mirrored 
the  poor  wretched  beings  who,  with  naked  feet  and 
shrunken  forms,  crawled  by.  I  used  to  notice  the- poor 
much,  when  I  first  went  there,  but  I  imagine,  afterward, 
they  did  not  frequent  the  fashionable  streets,  for  I  do 
not  remember  seeing  them.  Our  coachmen  we  clothed 
in  livery,  with  the  most  magnificent  furs  wrapped  about 
them.  Each  one  endeavoured  to  surpass  the  others  in 
equipage,  and  thus  many  millions  were  placed  in  the 
hands  of  wealthy  financiers. 

u  Sometimes,  a  poor  woman  ventured  to  accost  us, 
begging  for  aid;  but  most  of  the  ladies  would  be  so 
shocked  at  her  want  of  manners,  or  knowledge  of  the 
language,  that  they  frowned  upon  her  in  contempt. 
Some  advised  her  to  wear  better  shoes ;  but,  when  the 
half-frozen  wretch  asked  how  she  could  obtain  them, 
cried, 

"  '  Work,  work  I     Is  the  woman  crazy  ?' 

"  The  wretched  creature  turned  her  eyes  to  heaven, 
and  passed  on. 

"  I  will  give  you  an  idea  of  our  manner  of  passing 


POVERINA. 


15 


time.  We  all  rose  late,  and  threw  on  a  rich  rnorning- 
robe  and  elaborate  cap.  The  one  who  appeared  in  the 
greatest  disorder  was  pronounced  to  be  in  the  most 
charming  dishabille.  We  talked  over  much  gos?ip  and 
nonsense  at  our  meals,  lounged  in  the  parlour,  looked 
at  the  late  fashions,  or  read  any  work  that  was  quite  the 
ton  (for  you  know  one  likes  to  be  thought  to  be  literary 
without  the  trouble  of  being  so).  I  generally  skimmed 
over  the  story,  then  I  asked  the  opinion  of  those  who 
had  read  it  carefully,  and  adopted  their  opinion,  gene 
rally  remembering  the  language  in  which  it  was  given. 
"At  eleven  we  rode — called  later — shopped,  met  at 

's  to  gossip,  pulled  over  goods,  and  gave  as  much 

trouble  as  we  could,  consistently  with  politeness.  Our 
afternoons  were  engaged  in  joyous  amusements.  Our 
evenings  passed  at  the  opera,  theatre,  or  any  other 
fashionable  places.  When  any  celebrity  lectured,  we 
heard  him.  But  we  liked  only  the  stars  that  were  fixed 
planets,  those  that  were  rising,  or  those  likely  to  set,  we 
never  troubled  ourselves  about. 

"  Parties  were  our  great  abominations,  yet  we  never 
missed  one,  ana  dressed  ourselves  in  rivalry  as  well  aa 
our  coachmen.  We  wore  long  trains  in  the  evenings, 
and  might  have  been  taken  for  peacocks  by  a  casual 
observer.  Having  been  called  *  angels  without  wings,' 
we  determined  to  have  them  (the  wings).  Emulating 
Mercury's  cap,  we  wore  our  hair  puffed  out  to  the  last 
degree,  filling  all  the  spaces  with  green-houses. 

"  Had  the  flowers  bloomed  within  our  heads,  rose- 
leaves  of  thought  and  lily-bells  of  charity  might  have 
dropped  from  our  lips,  equal  to  the  'pearls  and  dia- 


16  POVERINA. 

monds'  of  the  fairy  tale.  Here  we  smiled  and  chatted, 
danced,  sang,  played  cards,  and  drank  wine,  returning 
to  our  homes  at  a  very  late  hour  of  the  night. 

"  It  is  needless  to  say,  my  dear  sisters,  that  in  this 
jiappy  life  I  enjoyed  myself  to  perfection  at  first.  But, 
after  awhile,  quarrels  ensued.  One  friend  spoke  evil  of 
another ;  some  were  less  discreet  and  prudent  than  I 
could  have  wished.  I  became  fatigued — there  was  no 
thing  new  to  engage  in.  I  was  restless  and  unhappy. 
As  my  health  gave  way  my  beauty  faded. 

"  When  our  prescribed  limit  of  time  drew  near,  I  was 
not  sorry  to  return  to  my  childhood's  home.  No  one 
regretted  my  loss.  I  had  no  friend.  I  am  firmly  con 
vinced,  that  as  in  these  joys  I  found  not  happiness, 
there  is  no  such  reality.  It  is  a  chimera  of  the  brain. 
One  imagines  they  have  found  it  often,  but  time  disen 
chants  them.  As  for  me,  I  detest  it.  I  have  lost  health 
in  seeking  it.  There  is  nothing  in  the  future  for  me. 
In  the  next  world  I  shall  find  none  of  my  best  loved 
joys.  I  can  look  back  upon  nothing  that  gives  me 
comfort.  Life  is  a  stubble-field — death  a  desert.  Speak 
thou,  Poverina." 

"Be  not  disturbed,  my  beloved  Reichen,"  cried  the 
tender  Poverina,  embracing  her. 

"  It  is  never  too  late  to  learn  goodness.  When  I  left 
thee,  Parnassa,  looking  with  tearful  eyes  adown  the  road 
after  me,  I,  too,  jouineyed  to  the  city.  I  hired  a  cosy 
room  in  a  small  plain  house.  I  hid  my  gold  in  the 
hearth,  and  started  forth  ostensibly  to  sell  ny  little 
produce.  Ah,  sisters,  how  many  wretched  forms  I  met ; 
not  unhappy  with  ideal  wants,  but  the  lack  of  nece* 


TOVERINA.  17 

saries  staring  them  in  the  face — driving  them,  they 
knew  not,  cared  not,  whither,  to  drown  them.  I  wished 
to  help  all,  but  I  waited  to  look  well.  The  little  child 
ren  cried  to  my  heart  the  most  imploringly — those  sent 
by  parents  to  steal  or  beg,  beaten  by  them,  if  unsuccess 
ful,  and  beveraged  on  poisonous  drinks  if  they  brought 
in  gains ;  those  who  have  no  childhood,  but  were  born 
old — old  in  cunning  and  guilt.  These  little  fire-brands 
I  plucked  from  the  burning.  I  built  a  house  for  them, 
tore  them  from  their  unnatural  parents.  I  employed 
poor  but  educated  girls  to  teach  and  oversee  them. 
Daily  I  added  to  my  number.  Then  I  took  by  the 
hand  the  erring  and  intoxicated.  I  pointed  toward  a 
ray  of  escape ;  I  watched  over  them,  arid  when  the 
cavern  of  despair  ceased  to  cover  them,  and  they  stood 
in  the  free  air,  men  and  women,  they  blessed  God  and 
wept. 

"  I  walked  with  the  poor  ;  I  was  of  them.  I  toiled, 
suffered,  grieved,  and  endured  with  them.  I  could 
always  relieve.  God  knows,  how  I  should  have  felt 
had  I  been  unable  to  do  so !  I  had  my  own  pleasures, 
too,  which  they  had  not.  I  read — passed  stolen  hours 
with  intelligent  friends — interchanged  confidences  and 
hopes,  When  labour  was  numbing  to  my  faculties,  I 
sought  some  congenial  amusement.  When  my  gold  had 
vanished,  more  poured  in.  I  received  contributions, 
and  with  economy  and  judgment  it  sufficed.  I  tore 
myself  with  pain  from  my  beloved  ones,  to  fulfil  our 
compact.  I  have  a  monitor  here,"  she  continued,  plac 
ing  her  hand  upon  her  heart,  "  who  bids  me  prepare  for 
a  long  journey.  I,  sisters,  have  found  happinesy  on 


18  FILIAL   LOVE   REWARDED. 

earth,  in  doing  good,  in  constant  occupation  in  follow 
ing  in  the  footsteps  of  Him,  who  has  said,  <  I  was  hun 
gered,  and  ye  fed  me ;  naked  and  ye  clothed  me.'  I 
have  lived — I  leave  in  the  hearts  of  many  my  monu 
ment.  I  die  in  peace  with  all,  assured  of  becoming 
happier  in  the  next  world  than  in  this." 

Here  lived  the  sisters,  all  awaiting  the  angel  of  death. 

Parnassa,  cold,  haughty,  and  passive,  received  in 
silence  his  summons. 

Reichen,  peevish,  fretful,  and  despairing,  gazed  at 
her  own  image  in  his  polished  scythe,  as  she  was  mowed 
into  the  outer  field. 

Poverina,  smiling,  patient,  and  hopeful,  hailed  with 
joy  the  rustle  of  his  wings,  and  rose,  with  a  song  of 
praise  upon  her  lip,  into  the  glorious  light  of  heaven. 


FILIAL  LOVE  REWARDED. 

"You  are  too  parsimonious,  Henry,"  said  Mr.  D.  to 
one  of  his  clerks,  as  they  were  together  in  the  counting- 
house  one  morning :  "  give  me  leave  to  say,  that  you  do 
not  dress  sufficiently  genteel  to  appear  as  clerk  in  a 
fashionable  store."  Henry's  face  was  suffused  with  a 
deep  blush,  and,  in  spite  of  his  endeavours  to  suppress 
it,  a  tear  trembled  on  his  manly  cheek.  "  Did  I  not 
know  that  your  salary  was  sufficient  to  provide  more 
genteel  habiliments,"  continued  Mr.  D.,  "  I  would  in 


FILIAL   LOVE   REWARDED.  19 

"My  salary  is  sufficient,  sir,"  replied  Henry,  in  a 
voice  choked  with  emotion,  but  with  that  proud  inde 
pendence  of  feeling  which  poverty  had  not  been  able  to 
divest  him  of.  His  employer  noticed  his  agitation,  and 
immediately  changed  the  subject. 

Mr.  D.  was  a  man  of  wealth  and  benevolence  ;  he  was 
a  widower  and  had  but  one  child,  a  daughter  who  was 
the  pride  of  his  declining  years.     She  was  not  as  beauti 
ful  as  an  angel  nor  as  perfect  as  a  Venus ;  but  the  good 
ness,  the  innocence,  the  intelligence  of  her  mind  shone 
in  her  countenance,  and  you  had  but  to  become   ac 
quainted  with,  to  admire,  to  love  her.     Such  was  Caro 
line  Delancy,  when  Henry  first  became  an  inmate  in 
her  father's  house.     No  wonder  he  soon  worshipped  at 
her  shrine — no  wonder  he  soon  loved  her  with  a  deep 
and  devoted  attention — and,  reader,  had  you  known  him, 
you  would  not  have  wondered  that  his  love  was  soon 
returned,  for  their  souls  were  congenial ;  they  were  cast 
in  virtue's  purest  mould — and  although  their   tongues 
never  gave  utterance  to  what  their  hearts  felt,  yet  the 
language  of  their  eyes  was  too  plain  to  be  misunderstood. 
Henry  was  the  very  soul  of  honour ;  and  although  he 
perceived  with  pleasure  that  he  was  not  altogether  in 
different  to  Caroline,  he  felt  as  though  he  must  control 
the   passions  that  glowed  in  his  bosom.     I  must  not 
endeavour  to  win  her  young  and  artless  heart,  thought 
he — I  am  penniless,  and  cannot  expect  that  her  father 
will  consent  to  our  union — he  has  ever  treated  me  with 
kindness,  and  I  will  not  be  ungrateful.     Thus  he  rea 
soned,  and  thus  heroically  endeavoured  to  subdue  what 
he  considered  an  ill-fated  passion.     Caroline  had  many 


20  FILIAL  LOVE  REWARDED. 

suitors,  and  some  who  were  fully  worthy  of  her ;  hut  she 
refused  all  their  overtures  with  a  gentle  and  decisive 
firmness.  Her  father  wondered  at  her  conduct,  yet  could 
not  thwart  her  inclination. 

He  was  in  the  decline  of  life,  and  wished  to  see  Caro 
line  happily  settled  ere  he  quitted  the  stage  of  existence. 
It  was  not  long  before  he  suspected  that  young  Henry 
was  the  cause  of  her  indifference  to  others.  The  evident 
pleasure  she  took  in  hearing  him  praised ;  the  blush  that 
overspread  their  cheeks  whenever  their  eyes  met,  all 
served  to  convince  the  old  gentleman,  who  had  not  for 
gotten  that  he  was  once  young  himself,  that  they  felt 
more  than  common  interest  in  each  other's  welfare.  He 
forbore  making  any  remarks  on  the  subject,  but  was 
not  so  much  displeased  as  penniless  Henry  would  have 
imagined. 

Henry  had  been  about  a  year  in  his  service.  Delancy 
knew  nothing  of  his  family ;  but  his  strict  integrity,  his 
irreproachable  morals,  his  pleasing  manners,  all  con 
spired  to  make  him  esteem  him  highly.  He  was  proud 
of  Henry,  and  wished  him  to  appear  as  respectably  as 
any  one.  He  had  often  wondered  at  the  scantiness  of 
his  wardrobe,  for,  although  he  dressed  with  the  most 
scrupulous  regard  to  neatness,  his  clothes  were  almost 
threadbare.  Mr.  D.  did  not  wish  to  think  that  this 
proceeded  from  a  niggardly  disposition,  and  he  deter 
mined  to  broach  the  subject,  and  if  possible,  ascertain 
the  real  cause — this  he  did  in  the  manner  before  related. 

Soon  after  this  conversation  took  place,  Mr.  D.  left 
home  on  business.  As  he  was  returning,  and  riding 
through  a  beautiful  village,  he  alighted  at  the  door  of  a 


FILIAL   LOfE   REWARDED.  21 

little  cottage  and  requested  a  drink.  The  mistress,  with 
an  ease  and  politeness  which  convinced  him  that  she  had 
not  always  been  the  humble  cottager,  invited  him  to 
enter.  He  accepted  her  invitation — and  here  a  sceno 
of  poverty  and  neatness  presented  itself  such  as  he  had 
never  before  witnessed.  The  fuiniture,  which  consisted 
of  nothing  more  than  was  necessary,  was  exquisitely 
clean,  so  that  it  gave  a  charm  to  poverty,  and  cast  an 
air  of  comfort  on  all  around.  A  venerable-looking  old 
man,  who  had  not  seemed  to  notice  the  entrance  of  Mr. 
D.,  sat  leaning  on  his  staff;  his  clothes  were  clean  and 
whole,  but  so  patched  that  you  could  scarcely  have  told 
which  had  been  the  original  piece. 

"  This  is  your  father,  I  presume,"  said  Mr.  D.,  ad 
dressing  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

"It  is,  sir." 

"  He  seems  to  be  quite  aged." 

"  He  is  in  his  eighty-third  year ;  he  has  survived  all 
his  children  except  myself." 

"You  have  once  seen  better  days  ?" 

"  I  have — my  husband  was  wealthy  ;  but  false  friends 
ruined  him — he  endorsed  notes  to  a  large  amount,  which 
stripped  us  of  nearly  all  our  property,  and  one  mis 
fortune  followed  another  until  we  were  reduced  to  com- 
plete  poverty.  My  husband  did  not  long  survive  hia 
losses,  and  two  of  my  children  soon  followed  him." 

"  Have  you  any  remaining  children  ?" 

"  I  have  one,  and  he  is  my  only  support.  My  health 
is  so  feeble  that  I  cannot  do  much,  and  my  father  being 
blind,  needs  great  attention.  My  son  conceals  from  my 
knowledge  the  amount  of  his  salary,  but  I  am  convinced 


22  FILIAL   LOVE    REWARDED. 

that  he  sends  me  nearly  all,  if  not  the  whole  amount 
of  it." 

"  Then  he  is  not  with  you  ?" 

"No,  sir,  he  is  clerk  for  a  merchant  in  Philadelphia." 

"  Clerk  for  a  merchant  in  Philadelphia !  What  is 
your  son's  name  ?" 

"  Henry  W ." 

"  Henry  W !"  reiterated  Mr.  D.,  "  why  he  is  my 

clerk  !  I  left  him  at  my  house  not  a  fortnight  since." 

Here  followed  a  series  of  inquiries,  which  evinced  an 
anxiety  and  solicitude  that  a  mother  alone  could  feel — 
to  all  of  which  Mr.  D.  replied  to  her  perfect  satisfaction. 

"You  know  our  Henry,"  said  the  old  man,  raising 
his  head  from  his  staff.  "Well,  sir,  then  you  know  as 
worthy  a  lad  as  ever  lived.  God  will  bless  him  for  his 
goodness  to  his  old  grandfather,"  he  added  in  a  tremu 
lous  voice,  while  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

"He  is  a  worthy  fellow,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  D., 
rising  and  placing  a  well-filled  purse  in  the  hands  of 
the  old  man.  "  He  is  a  worthy  fellow,  and  shall  not 
want  friends." 

"Noble  boy,"  said  he,  mentally,  as  he  was  riding 
alone,  ruminating  on  his  late  interview — "  noble  boy, — 
lie  shall  not  want  wealth  to  enable  him  to  distribute 
happiness.  I  believe  he  loves  my  girl,  and  if  he  does,  he 
shall  have  her  and  all  my  property  in  the  bargain." 

Filled  with  this  project,  and  determined  if  possible  to 
ascertain  the  true  state  of  their  hearts,  he  entered  the 
breakfast  room  the  next  morning  after  his  arrival  home. 

"  Do  you  know  that  Henry  is  about  to  leave  us  to  go 
to  England,  and  try  his  fortune  ?"  he  carelessly  observed, 


FILIAL   LOVE   REWARDED. 

"  Henry  about  to  leave !"  said  Caroline,  dropping  the 
work  she  held  in  her  hand—4'  about  to  leave  us  and  going 
to  England  !"  she  added,  in  a  tone  which  evinced  the 
deepest  interest. 

"But  what  if  he  is,  my  child?" 

"  Nothing,  sir,  nothing  ;  only  I  thought  we  should  be 
rather  lonesome." 

"  Tell  me,  Caroline,"  said  Mr.  D.,  tenderly  embracing 
her,  "  tell  me,  do  you  not  love  Henry  ?  You  know  I 
wish  your  happiness,  my  child.  I  have  ever  treated  you 
with  kindness,  and  you  have  never  until  now  hid  anything 
from  your  father." 

"Neither  will  I  now,"  she  replied,  hiding  her  face  in 
his  bosom.  "  I  do  most  sincerely  esteem  him ;  but  do  not 
for  worlds  tell  him  of  it,  for  he  has  never  said  it  was 
returned." 

"  I  will  soon  find  that  out,  and  without  telling  him, 
too,"  replied  the  father,  leaving  the  room. 

"Henry,"  said  he,  as  he  entered- the  counting-house, 
"  you  expect  to  visit  the  country  shortly,  do  you  not  ?" 

"Yes,  in  about  a  month." 

"If  it  would  not  be  inconvenient,"  rejoined  Mr.  D., 
"  I  should  like  to  have  you  defer  it  a  week  or  two  longer." 

"  It  will  be  no  inconvenience,  sir,  and  if  it  will  oblige 
you,  I  will  wait  with  pleasure." 

"  It  will  most  certainly  oblige  me,  for  Caroline  is  to  be 
married  in  about  five  weeks,  and  I  would  not  miss  having 
you  attend  the  wedding." 

"  Caroline  to  be  married,  sir !"  said  Henry,  starting 
as  if  by  an  electric  shock — "  Caroline  to  be  married  !— 
is  it  possible?" 


"^  FJLJAL    LOVE   REWARDED. 

"  To  be  sure  it  is — but  what  is  there  wonderful  in  that :' 

"  Nothing,  sir,  only  it  was  rather  sudden — rather  un 
expected — that  is  all." 

"It  is  rather  sudden,  to  be  sure,"  replied  Mr.  D. ; 
"  but  I  am  an  old  man,  and  as  the  man  of  her  choice  is 
well  worthy  of  her,  I  see  no  use  in  waiting  any  longer, 
and  am  very  glad  you  can  stay  to  the  wedding." 

"I  cannot  stay,  sir,  indeed  I  cannot,"  replied  Henry, 
forgetting  what  he  had  previously  said. 

"  You  cannot !"  rejoined  Mr.  D.,  "  why,  you  said  you 
would." 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  business  requires  my  presence  in  the 
country,  and  I  must  go." 

"  But  you  said  it  would  put  you  to  no  inconvenience, 
and  that  you  would  wait  with  pleasure." 

"  Command  me  in  anything  else,  sir,  but  in  this  respect 
I  cannot  oblige  you,"  said  Henry,  rising  and  walking 
with  rapid  strides  across  the  floor. 

Poor  fellow  !  he  had  thought  his  passion  subdued ;  but 
when  he  found  that  Caroline  was  soon  so  irrevocably  to 
become  another's,  the  latent  spark  burst  forth  in  an  un- 
extinguished  flame ;  and  he  found  it  in  vain  to  endeavour 
to  conceal  his  emotion. 

The  old  gentleman  regarded  him  with  a  look  of  earnest- 
ness.  "  Henry,"  said  he,  "  tell  me  frankly,  do  you  love 
my  girl?" 

"  I  will  be  candid  with  you,  sir,"  replied  Henry,  con- 
scious  that  his  agitation  had  betrayed  him,  "  had  I  a  for- 
tune  such  as  she  merits,  and  as  you,  sir,  have  a  right  to 
expect,  I  should  think  myself  the  happiest  of  men,  could 
I  gain  her  love." 


FILIAL    LOVE   REWARDED.  25 

"  Then  she  is  yours,"  cried  the  delighted  *ld  m;m ; 
"  say  not  a  word  about  property,  my  boy  ;  true  worth  is 
better  than  riches.  I  was  only  trying  you,  Henry,  and 
Caroline  will  never  be  married  to  any  other  than  your 
self." 

The  transition  from  despair  to  happiness  was  great. 
For  a  moment,  Henry  remained  silent ;  but  his  looks 
spoke  volumes.  At  last,  "I  will  not  deceive  you,  sir," 
eaid  he ;  *'  I  am  poorer  than  you  suppose — I  have  a 

mother  and  grandfather,  who  are " 

"I  know  it,  I  know  it  all,  Henry,"  said  Mr.  D.,  in 
terrupting  him.    "  I  know  the  reason  of  your  parsimony, 
as  I  called  it,  and  I  honour  you  for  it.    It  is  that  which 
first  put  it  into  my  head  to  give  you  Caroline — she  will 
be  yours,  and  may  God  bless  you  both." 

Shortly  after  this  conversation,  Henry  avowed  his  love 
to  Caroline,  and  solicited  her  hand,  and  it  is  needless  to 
say  he  did  not  solicit  in  vain.  Caroline  would  have  de 
ferred  their  union  until  the  ensuing  spring,  but  her  father 
was  inexorable.  He  supposed  he  should  have  to  own  to 
one  little  deception,  he  said,  and  they  would  have  him 
shoulder  two  ;  but  that  was  too  much,  entirely  too  much, 
arid  he  would  not  endure  it ;  he  had  told  Henry  that  she 
was  going  to  be  married  in  five  weeks,  and  he  should  not 
forfeit  his  word.  "  But,  perhaps,"  added  he,  apparently 
recollecting  himself,  and  turning  to  Henry,  "  perhaps  we 
Bhall  have  to  defer  it,  after  all,  for  you  have  important 
business  in  the  country  about  that  time." 

"  Be  merciful,  sir,"  said  Henry,  smiling;  "  I  did  not 

to  witness  the  sacrifice  of  my  own  happiness." 
"  I  am  merciful,"  replied  the  old  gentleman,  "  and  for 


26  THE   ADOPTED    CHILD. 

that  reason  I  would  not  wish  to  put  you  to  the  inconve 
nience  of  staying.     You  said  that  you  would  willingly 
oblige  me,  but  you  could  not,  indeed  you  could  not." 
4  You  have  once  been  young,  sir,"  said  Henry. 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it,"  replied  he,  laughing  heartily ; 
"  but  I  am  afraid  that  too  many  of  us  old  folks  forget 
it — luvTever,  if  you  can  postpone  your  journey,  I  sup 
pose  we  must  have  a  wedding." 

We  have  only  to  add,  that  the  friends  of  Henry  were 
sent  for,  and  the  nuptials  solemnized  at  the  appointed 
time  ;  and  that,  blessed  with  the  filial  love  of  Henry  and 
Caroline,  the  old  people  passed  the  remainder  of  their 
days  in  peace  and  happiness. 


THE  ADOPTED  CHILD. 

This  little  nursling,  take  it  to  thy  love, 
And  shield  the  bird  unfledged,  since  gone  the  parent  dove. 

CAMPBELL. 

ONE  day  I  was  rambling  about  the  outskirts  of  the 
lovely  village  of  Syderiham,  in  Kent,  when  a  shower 
drove  me  to  take  refuge  in  a  little  way-side  cottage. 
Immediately  afterwards,  a  lady  entered,  and  asked  per- 
mission  to  wait  till  the  rain  was  over.  The  good  woman 
of  the  cottage  placed  a  chair  for  her  visiter,  with  a  hearty 
welcome,  and  then  resumed  her  occupation  of  looking 
anxiously  along  the  road,  from  which  this  momentary 
interruption  had  withdrawn  her.  In  a  few  minutes  J 


THE   ADOPTED   CHILD.  27 

heard  the  pattering  of  a  pair  of  small  feet  along  the 
muddy  road. 

"  Poor  little  lamb  !  she's  wet  to  the  skin  !"  said  the 
woman,  receiving  into  her  open  arms  the  owner  of  tho 
small  feet,  a  little  girl  about  six  years  old.  "Ain't  you 
wet,  dear?" 

"  Yes,  I'm  very  wet,"  replied  the  child. 

"  We'll  soon  set  that  to  rights.  Come  by  the  fire, 
there's  a  darling.  I  hope  you'll  please  to  excuse  me, 
ma'am,"  she  continued,  addressing  the  lady;  "but  you 
see,  if  I  left  her  wet  things  on  she'd  be  sure  to  catch 
cold." 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  indeed,  if  you  were  to  do 
so  on  account  of  my  being  here,"  replied  the  visiter, 
watching  with  much  interest  the  maternal  cares  that 
were  bestowed  upon  the  little  wanderer's  comfort.  "  You 
seem  very  fond  of  your  little  girl.  I  suppose  she  is  your 
youngest,  is  she  not?" 

44  La,  ma'am  !  she's  no  child  of  mine,  nor  noways 
related,"  said  the  woman,  affectionately  kissing  the  ob 
ject  that  truth  obliged  her  to  disown  ;  "  but  that  don't 
make  no  kind  of  difference.  I'm  as  fond  of  her  as  if 
Bhe  was  my  own  flesh  and  blood,  every  bit." 

44  Indeed  you  seem  so.  I  quite  thought  she  was  tho 
youngest,  and  the  pet." 

44  She  is  the  pet,  ma'am,  bless  her  little  heart ;  but 
ihe's  noways  related  to  me  nor  my  husband." 

44  Whose  child  is  she,  then?"  inquired  the  lady. 

44  Why,  ma'am,  she's  the  child  of  the  man  that  lives 
in  the  next  cottage  down  the  road — you  can  see  the 
chimney  from  our  door;  and  just  two  years  ago  he  lost 


THE    ADOPTED    CHILD 

his  wife.  She  died,  poor  thing  !  just  when,  one  may 
Bay,  she  was  most  wanted,  for  this  dear  child  was  barely 
four  years  old,  and  there  were  two  boys  older,  and  one 
baby  in  arms.  Well,  you  see,  ma'am,  it  was  like  to 
drive  him  beside  himself  to  have  four  babies  to  take 
care  of,  and  go  to  his  work  besides.  So  me  and  another 
neighbour,  we  just  thought  we  might  help  him  a  bit  if 
we  took  the  two  youngest  off  his  hands.  So  as  she  had 
lost  her  baby,  that  was  a  few  months  old,  she  took  quite 
natural  to  the  little  one ;  and  I  had  this  darling.  All 
my  own  children  were  off  my  hands,  and  out  in  the 
world  earning  their  own  bread  ;  so  what  difference  could 
this  little  thing  make  to  us  ?  We  don't  feel  the  want 
of  her  bit  of  victuals  ;  and  her  little  clothes  and  things, 
they  are  nothing  hardly.  I  can  make  most  of  them  out 
of  my  own  old  ones  ;  and  what  I  buys  neAV  for  her,  why 
as  things  is  so  cheap,  as  one  may  say,  we  gets  'em  for 
nothing  almost." 

"I  hope  she  is  a  good  child,"  said  the  visitor,  "and 
that  she  repays  you  by  her  love  and  gratitude  for  the 
care  you  bestow  upon  her." 

"  She's  the  best  little  soul  in  the  world,"  returned 
the  cottager,  hugging  the  half-naked  child  affectionately 
in  her  arms ;  "and  I  really  think  she  has  brought  luck 
to  us,  for  we've  seemed  to  thrive  ever  since  she  came, 
Mayhap  my  husband  would  stop,  once  in  a  way,  of  a 
Saturday  night,  and  take  a  pint  of  beer  at  the  public- 
house,  but  he  never  does  so  now.  He  says,  if  he  fec;la 
inclined  to  go  in,  he  stops  and  thinks  that  Nancy  wants 
a  pair  of  shoes,  or  a  warm  frock,  or  something  of  that 
lort,  and  a  sixpence  or  a  shilling  will  go  a  good  way 


THE   ADOPTED   CHILD.  29 

towards  it,  an  1  then  he  comes  home.  Arid  he's  so 
fond  of  her,  too.  I  don't  think  he  ever  loved  one 
of  his  own  children  so  well  as  he  does  her.  But  I  cau 
hardly  wonder  at  it,  neither,  ma'am,  for  she  is  such  a 
good,  obedient  child,  though  I  say  it  before  her  face, 
which  I  shouldn't,  I  know,  only  she  is  too  good  to  be 
spoilt.  And  then  she  begins  to  be  quite  useful  now, 
ma'am.  She  goes  of  many  a  little  errand  for  me,  and 
fetches  things  out  of  the  garden,  and  puts  in  the  seeds 
after  her  father — that's  my  husband,  I  mean,  ma'am  ; 
but  she  always  calls  him  father.  There,  ma'am,  all 
those  two  rows  of  French  beans  were  her  planting ;  and 
many  little  things  she  can  do  besides  to  help  father  and 
me." 

*4  Your  garden  looks  very  neat,"  observed  the  lady. 

''Well,  and  I  may  say,  ma'am,  that's  her  doing 
mostly.  Not  that  she  can  do  it  all  herself,  or  dig  and 
that,  poor  thing !  but  father  takes  a  pride  in  it  when 
she's  helping  him.  Don't  he,  dear?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  child;  "  and  we  planted  such  a  lot 
of  taters  !" 

"  So  you  did,  my  dear.  Father  digged  up  the  ground, 
and  Nancy  planted  every  one  of  them,  so  she  did." 

"  Yes  ;  and  mother  cut  them  all  up  into  bits  ready 
to  plant." 

"  So  I  did,  darling ;  but  you  could  have  done  that 
too,  only  I  was  afeard  you  should  cut  your  little  fingers 
into  the  bargain.  I'm  sure  she  could  have  done  it, 
ma'am,  she's  so  wonderfully  cute  and  sensible  for  her 
age.'' 

"  I  have  no  doubt  at  all  about  it,"  replied  the  visitor. 


30  THE   ADOPTED   CHILD. 

rising ;  "  and  now,  as  the  rain  seems  to  have  ceastd,  1 
will  wish  you  a  good-morning,  and  thank  you  for  yom 
kindness  in  giving  me  shelter  so  long." 

"  Good-morning,  ma'am,  and  thank  you  for  coming 
into  my  poor  place.  Say  '  Good-morning'  to  the  lady, 
Nancy." 

"  Good-morning,  ma'am,"  said  Nancy,  with  one  finger 
in  her  mouth. 

"  Good-by,  little  dear,"  said  the  lady,  and  went  her 
way  ;  but  I  remained  to  see  a  little  more  of  Nancy  and 
her  kind-hearted  foster-mother.  In  the  evening,  the 
"  father"  came  home,  and  after  some  preliminary  exci 
tation  of  Nancy's  curiosity,  he  opened  a  parcel  that  he 
had  taken  from  his  pocket,  and  disclosed  a  pair  of  thread 
gloves,  and  two  pink-checked  pocket  handkerchiefs,  all 
for  Nancy.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  see  the  glow  of  delight 
that  beamed  over  the  good-natured  face  of  the  rough 
labouring  man,  as  the  grateful  child  expressed  her  rap 
ture  at  this  "beautiful  present;"  beautiful  indeed  it 
was  to  her  simple  taste,  and  to  a  higher  perception  it 
was  invested  with  a  moral  beauty  that  made  it  outshine 
the  Koh-i-Noor  itself,  for  it  was  the  result  of  the  small 
daily  savings  and  self-denial  of  a  kind  heart  that  pre 
ferred  the  pleasure  of  another  to  selfish  gratification. 

Then  aftei  tea,  for  'twas  in  the  summer  time,  an  hour 
was  spent  in  attending  to  the  garden,  and  Nancy  drew 
a  dish  of  young  onions,  of  her  own  sowing,  for  supper. 
Don't  be  shocked  at  this,  fair  reader ;  they  were  not  so 
odoriferous  by  a  great  deal,  as  the  garlic  so  plentifully 
eaten  by  all  ranks  in  Spain,  that  land  of  romance,  and 
guitars,  and  serenades.  There  was  company  expected 


THE   ADOPTED   CHILD.  31 

to  supper  too  ;  Nancy's  father,  or  "  daddy,"  as  she 
called  him,  to  distinguish  him  from  her  father  by  adop 
tion,  and  "father's"  sister  Mary.  Mary  was  a  nice, 
tidy-looking  young  woman,  of  about  five  or  six  and 
twtity.  She  had  just  left  her  place,  and  had  come  to 
stay  with  her  brother  till  she  got  suited  again,  which  I 
thought  she  would  not  have  to  wait  for  very  long,  when 
I  observed  the  deep  impression  that  she  seemed  to  make 
upon  Nancy's  daddy  as  soon  as  he  came  in.  He  took 
care,  during  the  course  of  the  evening,  to  let  her  under 
stand  that  he  was  only  thirty-two,  and  that  his  wages 
were  to  be  raised  next  week.  Then  he  talked  about  his 
two  boys  at  home,  how  handy  and  clever  they  were  ; 
but  that  they  sadly  wanted  some  tidy  young  woman  to 
look  after  them.  Then  he  told  her  about  his  cottage, 
saying  it  was  just  as  comfortable  a  one  as  her  brother's, 
only  not  so  orderly  and  still,  for  the  want  of  some  tidy 
young  woman  to  take  care  of  it.  And  when  she  was 
out  of  the  room,  he  even  went  so  far  as  to  ask  her  bro 
ther,  as  they  sat  smoking  their  pipes  together,  whether 
he  thought  Mary  would  have  him. 

'You'd  better  ask  her,  yourself,  John,"  was  the 
reply  ;  "  she's  a  good,  steady  girl,  and  would  make  a  good 
wife  to  any  man.  She's  not  single  now  for  want  of 
being  asked,  for  she's  had  lots  of  lovers." 

"  Well,  I  wonder  if  she'd  have  me'?  To-morrow  will 
be  Sunday,  so  I'll  come  up  in  the  evening,  and  ask  her 
to  take  a  walk,  and  then  we'll  see."  He  smoked  anothei 
pipe  almost  in  silence,  and  then  departed. 

"I  say,  Mary,"  said  her  brother,  jocosely,  after  he 
was  gone,  "  wilt  thou  have  John  ?" 


32  THE   ADOPTED   CHILD. 

"  Don't  bother,"  replied  Mary,  blushing. 

"  But  he's  asked  me  if  I  thought  you  would.  What 
shall  I  tell  him  ?" 

"  You'd  better  not  tell  him  what  you  don't  know ; 
and  I  won't  say  before  he  asks  me,"  was  her  cautious 
answer. 

"  Well,  he's  coming  to-morrow  to  go  for  a  walk  with 
you." 

"  Don't  be  foolish,"  said  Mary,  reprovingly. 

"  Didn't  you  hear  him  say  so,  mother  ?"  he  persisted, 
appealing  to  his  wife. 

"  He  did  say  so,  Mary,  for  I  heard  him." 

"  La  !"  exclaimed  Mary  ;  "  but  that  ain't  asking  mo 
to  marry  him." 

"  No,  but  he  will  ask  you.     What  will  you  say  ?" 

"  I  shan't  tell  you  beforehand,  because  I  know  he 
ain't  agoing  to  ask  me,"  said  Mary.  Sure  as  she  was 
of  this,  it  did  seem  a  little  odd  that  she  should  spend 
more  than  an  hour  before  going  to  bed,  in  re-trimming 
her  Sunday  bonnet,  and  otherwise  doing  up  her  best 
clothes. 

I  was  prevented  witnessing  what  took  place  during 
the  walk  on  the  following  evening ;  but  I  suppose  all 
went  smoothly,  for  when  I  visited  the  cottage  again, 
which  was  not  till  the  following  Saturday,  I  found  they 
were  to  be  asked  in  church  the  next  morning. 

"  You  see,  father,"  observed  the  wife  to  her  husband, 
"it's  just  what  I  said.  Nothing  but  good  ever  doea 
C'-rau  of  our  taking  that  dear  child.  But  who'd  have 
thought  it  would  have  got  such  a  good  husband  for  our 
Alary?" 


DON'T  RUN  IN  DEBT. 

Oow'r  run  in  debt!— never  mind,  never  mir.d, 

If  the  old  clothes  are  faded  and  torn  ; 
Fit  them  up,  make  them  do,  it  is  better  by  far, 

Than  to  have  the  heart  weary  and  worn. 
Who'll  love  you  more  for  the  set  of  the  hat, 

Or  your  ruff,  or  the  tie  of  your  shoe, 
The  shape  of  your  vest,  or  your  boots,  or  cravat, 

If  they  know  you're  in  debt  for  the  new  ? 

Don't  run  in  debt. — If  canary's  the  go, 

Wear  blue,  if  you  have  not  the  cash, 
Or — no  matter  what — so  you  let  the  world  know 

You  won't  run  in  debt  for  a  dash. 
There's  no  comfort,  I  tell  you,  in  walking  the  street 

In  fine  clothes,  if  you  know  you're  in  debt, 
And  feel  that  perchance  you  some  tradesman  may  mo0^ 

Who  will  sneer — "  They're  not  paid  for  yet!" 

Good  friends,  let  me  beg  you,  don't  run  in  debt, 

If  the  chairs  and  the  sofas  are  old — 
They  will  fit  your  back  better  than  any  new  set 

Unless  they  are  paid  for  in  gold ; 
If  the  house  is  small,  draw  it  closer  together, 

Keep  it  warm  with  a  hearty  good-will ; 
A  big  one  unpaid  for,  in  all  kinds  of  weather, 

Will  send  to  your  warm  heart  a  chill. 

Don't  run  in  debt — now,  dear  girls,  take  a  hint; 

(If  the  fashions  have  changed  since  last  seasjn,) 
Old  Nature  is  out  in  the  very  same  tint, 

And  Old  Nature,  we  think,  has  some  reason. 
Just  say  to  your  friends  you  cannot  afford 

To  spend  time  to  keep  up  with  the  fashion ; 
That  your  purse  is  too  light,  and  your  honour  too  Vright, 

ro  be  tarnished  with  such  silly 


84  x  LITTLE   THINGS. 

Gents,  don't  run  in  debt — let  your  friends,  if  they  can, 

Have  fine  houses,  feathers,  and  flowers, 
But  unless  they  are  paid  for,  be  more  of  a  man, 

Than  envy  their  sunshiny  hours. 
If  you  have  money  to  spare,  I  have  nothing  to  say ; 

Spend  your  dimes  and  your  dollars  as  you  please, 
But  mind  you  the  man  that  has  his  note  to  pay 

Is  the  man  that  is  never  at  ease. 

Kind  husbands,  don't  run  in  debt  any  more ; 

'Twill  fill  your  wife's  cup  full  of  sorrow ; 
To  know  that  a  neighbour  may  call  at  your  door, 

With  a  bill  you  can't  settle  to-morrow, 
Oh  !  take  my  advice — it  is  good,  it  is  true, 

(But  lest  yon  may  some  of  you  doubt  it,) 
I'll  whisper  a  secret  now,  seeing  'tis  you — 

I  have  tried  it,  and  know  all  about  it. 

The  chain  of  a  debtor  is  heavy  and  cold, 

Tts  links  all  corrosion  and  rust, 
Gild  it  o'er  as  you  will— it  is  never  of  gold, 

Then  spurn  it  aside  with  disgust. 
The  man  who's  in  debt  is  too  often  a  slave, 

Though  his  heart  may  be  honest  and  true; 
Can  he  hold  up  his  head,  and  look  saucy  and  brave, 

When  a  note  he  can't  pay  becomes  due? 


LITTLE  THINGS-THE  INDEX  OF  CHARACTER. 

THOSE  trifling  acts  which  show  consideration  for 
others,  where  neglect  might  perhaps  pass  unobserved, 
but  to  which  true  kindness  will  prompt,  are  better  tests 
of  real  goodness  of  heart  than  courtesy  of  manners  in 
society,  or  deeds  of  public  charity  which  may  spring 


LITTLE  THINGS.  35 

from  a  desire  of  approval.  This  genuine  benevolence 
is  more  clearly  observable  in  the  deportment  towards  the 
neglected,  or  when  shown  in  a  solicitude  for  the  guilty, 
where  its  manifestation  may  bring  censure  rather  than 
eclat.  I  remember  an  instance  which  illustrates  what 
seeming  trifles  are,  sometimes,  true  indications  of 
character. 

A  few  years  since,  in  travelling,  it  chanced  that  L 
spent  the  night  at  the  house  of  some  friends  of  my 
mother,  who  were  previously  strangers  to  me.  The  time 
of  my  arrival  proved  rather  an  unpropitious  one  for  a 
first  visit.  A  general  house-cleaning  was  in  progress, 
and  the  good  lady  of  the  house  was  fearful  there  was 
not  a  place  in  it  fit  for  me  to  sit  or  sleep  in.  It  was 
evening  when  I  arrived,  and  operations  had  been 
suspended  for  the  time;  but  everything  was  in  con 
fusion. 

Much  fatigued,  and  suffering  from  a  severe  pain  in 
my  head,  I  retired  at  an  early  hour.  The  room  assigned 
me  for  the  night,  was  the  same  to  be  occupied  by  the 
two  daughters  of  my  hostess,  whom,  as  they  had  gone 
out  with  some  young  companions  for  a  moonlight  walk, 
I  had  not  yet  seen.  A  portion  of  the  furniture  of  the 
apartment  had  been  removed,  but  the  nice  bed  that  had 
been  placed  there  for  temporary  convenience,  was  so 
fresh  and  neat,  and  its  delicious  softness  so  grateful  to 
my  frame,  worn  by  long  journeying,  that,  despite  my 
weariness  and  pain,  I  soon  fell  asleep. 

I  was  awakened  from  a  pleasant  dream  by  the  sound 
of  voices  below  stairs.  The  sisters  had  returned  from 


LITTLE    THINGS. 

their  walk,  and  I  heard  their  mother  announce  to  them 
my  arrival. 

Again  I  fell  into  a  slumber,  and  was  aroused  by  some 
one  in  the  room.  On  opening  my  eyes,  I  saw  a  figure 
leaving  my  bedside,  which  I  suppose  to  be  one  of  the 
young  ladies  who  had  been  taking  a  peep  at  me  in  my 
sleep,  as  she  proceeded  to  the  other  bed,  and  1  heard 
her  preparing  for  rest.  Pain  forced  me  to  close  my 
eyes  again ;  but  how  do  you  think  I  was  enabled  to 
decide,  and  correctly,  upon  the  dispositions  of  these  two 
girls,  without-  seeing  their  faces,  or  hearing  them  speak 
one  word — or,  but  one ;  and  how,  on  the  next  morning, 
I  knew,  just  by  looking  at  them,  which  retired  first?  It 
was  simply  in  this  way — when  the  first  who  entered  the 
room  left  my  bedside,  she  went  to  her  own,  and,  drawing 
towards  her  a  chair,  she  took  off  her  heavy  walking  shoes, 
and,  throwing  them  to  a  little  distance,  they  met  the 
un carpeted  floor  with  a  concussion  which  made  me  start. 
1  then  heard  her  go  to  a  closet,  near  her  bed,  and  com 
mence  rummaging  among  its  contents,  apparently  for 
some  missing  article.  Then  opening  the  door  of  the 
apartment,  she  called  "Frances ;"  but,  her  sister  not 
hearing,  she  closed  it  heavily,  and  jumping  into  bed, 
drew  a  stand  towards  her,  and  Appeared  to  be  busied  in 
reading  for  a  few  moments;  then  she  extinguished  the 
light,  and  her  breathing  soon  indicated  that  she  slept. 

Now  these  things,  slight  as  they  might  seem,  jarre-l 
very  disagreeably  on  my  feelings;  the  more  so,  from 
my  peculiar  state  of  mind  and  body  at  the  time, — 
not  merely  the  sounds  themselves,  but  the  want  of  sen 
sibility  they  implied,  -which,  I  thought,  would  instinct 


LITTLE   THINGS.  37 

ively  prompt  the  noiseless  step  and  gentle  hand,  when 
in  the  apartment  of  the  weary  who  are  seeking  rest. 
While  these  thoughts  were  passing  in  my  mind,  for  I 
was  now  thoroughly  awakened,  the  other  sister  entered 
the  room. 

Gently  closing  the  door,  she  slipped  off  her  shoes  at 
the  threshold,  and  going  on  tiptoe  to  the  bedside,  she 
softly  whispered — "  Mary  ?" — but  her  sister  was  sleep 
ing,  and  she  soon  carefully  took  her  place  at  her  side. 

"Mary,"  I  said  to  myself — "  'tis  a  sweet  name,  but 
I  fear  she  is  not  as  gentle" — for  I  felt  that  a  person's 
real  disposition  is  more  clearly  revealed,  in  then  un 
guarded  moments,  and  in  trifles,  than  where  it  would  be 
more  conspicuous.  But  Frances — I  felt  assured  I  should 
find  her  amiable.  What  a  soothing  influence  had  her 
gentleness  upon  my  nerves,  which  had  been  disturbed 
by  the  carelessness  manifested  by  her  sister  !  In  the 
morning,  when  I  awoke,  the  sun  was  shining  full  into 
the  chamber,  and  the  young  ladies  had  nearly  finished 
their  toilette.  I  recognised  Frances  at  a  glance  ;  there 
was  a  softness  and  sensibility  in  the  expression  of  hei 
eyes  which  spoke  a  gentle,  loving  spirit ;  and  a  long 
after-acquaintance  confirmed  the  conclusion  I  formed 
concerning  her  from  the  slight  circumstances  of  that 
night.  I  found  her  always  kind  and  considerate  for 
the  comfort  and  happiness  of  others,  ever  avoiding, 
with  delicacy  and  tact,  trespassing  on  the  rights,  or 
wounding  the  feelings  of  any  one  by  word  or  act.  Mary, 
on  the  contrary,  was  one  of  those  persons  with  whom, 
without  really  designing  any  unkindness,  self  is  so  pre 
dominant,  as  to  be  the  centre  of  all  their  thoughts  ami 


88  THE    HAPPY   LOT. 

actions,  but  to  whom  the  slight  sacrifices  they  make 
seem  so  great,  that  they  imagine,  no  one  steps  aside  so 
much  for  others  as  themselves. 


THE  HAPPY  LOT. 

BLEST  is  the  hearth  where  daughters  gird  the  fire, 

And  sons  that  shall  be  happier  than  their  sire, 

Who  sees  them  crowd  around  his  evening  chair, 

\\  hile  love  and  hope  inspire  his  wordless  prayer. 

0,  from  their  home  paternal  may  they  go, 

With  little  to  unlearn,  though  much  to  know ! 

Them  may  no  poisoned  tongue,  no  evil  eye, 

Curse  for  the  virtues  that  refuse  to  die; 

The  generous  heart,  the  independent  mind, 

Till  truth  like  falsehood  leaves  a  sting  behind ! 

May  temperance  crown  their  feast,  and  friendship 

May  pity  come,  love's  sister  spirit,  there ! 

May  they  shun  baseness  as  they  shun  the  grave ! 

May  they  be  frugal,  pious,  humble,  brave ! 

Sweet  peace  be  theirs — the  moonlight  of  the  breast— 

And  occupation,  and  alternate  rest; 

And  dear  to  care  and  thought  the  usual  walk ; 

Theirs  be  no  flower  that  withers  on  the  stalk, 

But  roses  cropped,  that  shall  not  bloom  in  vain ; 

And  Hope's  blest  sun,  that  sets  to  rise  again. 

Be  chaste  their  nuptial  bed,  their  home  be  sweet, 

Their  floor  resound  the  tread  of  little  feet ; 

Blest- beyond  fear  and  fate,  if  blest  by  thee 

And  heirs,  0  Love!  of  thine  eternity  1 


LABOUR. 

IT  is  part  of  the  arrangements  of  Providence  that 
every  man  should  labour  in  some  way  or  other ;  that 
either  with  his  brain,  or  by  means  of  his  bone  and  mus 
cle,  he  should  bring  out  all  the  capabilities  that  are  in 
him ;  that,  in  short,  he  should  prove  himself  a  man. 

If  we  needed  proof  of  this,  we  might  find  it  in  the 
fact  that  man,  when  he  first  comes  into  the  world,  is  the 
most  helpless  of  all  animals.  Nothing  is  done  for  him ; 
while  for  other  creatures  everything  is  done.  They  are 
more  or  less  fitted  to  enter  at  once  on  their  life.  The 
bird  finds  himself  clothed  with  feathers,  the  sheep  with 
wool,  the  dog  with  hair,  without  any  thought  or  exertion 
on  their  part.  Man,  on  the  contrary,  must  provide  him 
self  with  clothing ;  he  must,  by  hunting,  fishing,  or 
labour  of  some  sort,  procure  food  for  himself.  Whether 
or  no,  we  see  that  he  is  compelled  to  labour,  if  he  is  to 
stay  upon  the  earth  at  all. 

Thus  there  is  no  escape  from  it :  we  must  work,  or 
accept  the  alternative — die  !  To  many  people  this  ap 
pears  to  be  a  grievance,  or  injustice.  Have  they  ever 
asked  themselves  the  question,  whether  it  is  really  so? 
— whether  their  opinion  is  sound  or  unsound  ?  Until 
they  have  done  that,  they  have  no  right  to  complain. 
But  what  is  the  fact  ?  The  answer  is,  that  labour  is 
not  a  curse,  but  a  blessing ;  that  the  necessity  under 
.vhich  we  all  lie  to  exert  ourselves  is  a  something  for 
vhich  we  have  to  be  thankful.  Consider  only  :  what 


40  LABOUR. 

should  we  be  without  labour  ?  Look  at  those  countries 
which  produce  the  fruits  of  the  earth  with  scarcely  any 
toil  or  trouble ;  the  people  are  not  only  indolent,  but 
they  are  incapable  of  exertion.  Their  faculties  are,  as 
it  were,  benumbed.  They  want  manhood  ;  and  not  un- 
frequently  have  no  spirit  of  greatness  or  generosity.  The 
moie  nature  does  for  them,  the  less  will  they  do  for  them 
selves.  Like  the  boys  who  bribe  their  more  diligent 
schoolmates  to  help  them  with  their  tasks,  they  are 
always  at  the  bottom  of  the  class.  Nothing  short  of  an 
earthquake  will  rouse  them ;  and  then  they  will  rush  out 
into  the  streets  and  pray  to  the  saints,  instead  of  trying 
to  prop  the  falling  walls.  If  they  would  work  as  well 
as  pray,  it  would  be  all  the  better  for  them.  Constant 
summer  is  very  pleasant ;  but  if  constant  summer  makes 
people  lazy,  they  might  do  well  to  try  the  effect  of  a 
winter. 

On  the  contrary,  look  at  countries  where  it  is  not 
always  summer;  where  frost  and  snow,  and  fog  and 
cloud,  come  at  times  to  alter  the  face  of  nature  or  the 
state  of  the  atmosphere.  What  a  manly,  vigorous  race 
the  natives  are  !  Everything  is  not  done  to  their  hands, 
and  they  have  to  bestir  themselves  stoutly  if  they  wish- 
to  live  with  ease  or  comfort.  To  what  do  we  owe  our 
roads,  canals,  bridges,  railways,  telegraphs,  and  other 
great  constructions  ?  To  labour.  Labour  provided  the 
means ;  and  hand-labour,  directed  by  brain-labour, 
wrought  the  work.  Had  labour  not  been  going  on  for 
hundreds  of  years  within  our  borders,  it  is  very  certain 
we  should  not  be  in  the  position  that  we  now  are.  Labour 
has  been  brought  to  such  a  pitch  that,  though  we  cannot 
have  perpetual  summer,  we  can  have,  of  course,  a,*,  it 


fjBf&J. 


"  * 

MBK^'^Y'^ 

V  *  'tsk-:j  :  y.^;.< 


JH^Oli: 


LABOUR.  41 

pleases  Providence,  perpetual  comfort.  And  what  is 
more,  our  faculties  are  developed,  our  abilities  are  made 
tbe  most  of,  and  there  is  no  enterprise  too  great  for  us 
to  undertake. 

Labour  being  a  good  on  a  great  scale,  it  follows  that 
it  is  a  good  on  a  small  scale.  If  a  whole  people  is  bene 
fited,  so  is  each  individual  of  the  whole  benefited  also. 
What  polishing  is  to  the  diamond,  such  is  labour  to  the 
man.  Labour  leads  on  from  thought  to  thought,  from 
endeavour  to  endeavour,  each  advance  being  but  the  step 
towards  another.  Perfection  is  the  object  aimed  at; 
and,  as  far  as  is  permitted  to  human  skill  and  ingenuity, 
many  of  the  results  of  our  labour  are  perfect. 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that,  in  certain  cases  and  condi" 
tions  of  society,  men  may  have  to  labour  too  much  ;  but 
this  fact  does  not  disprove  the  other  fact,  that  a  man 
cannot  labour  without  being  the  better  for  it.  Occupa 
tion,  whether  of  body  or  mind,  is,  far  more  than  many 
of  us  are  willing  to  believe,  a  prime  means  of  happiness. 
Do  you  doubt  the  fact  ?  Look  well  at  the  first  person 
you  see  wno  has  really  nothing  to  do ;  the  chances  are 
a  thousand  to  one  that  you  will  find  him  to  be  in  some 
way  or  other  a  very  miserable  being.  Many  who  read 
these  lines  will  remember  times  when  they  have  risen  in 
the  morning  weary  and  dispirited,  when  life  seemed  to 
have  no  relish.  But,  being  obliged  to  work,  they  have 
found  as  the  work  went  on  that  the  cloud  which  hun^ 

O 

about  their  minds  disappeared,  that  cheerfulness  and 
hope  came  back  again  ;  and  still  as  they  continued,  so 
did  their  contentment  increase.  There  is  great  virtue 
in  labour ;  it  is  a  noble  means  of  exercise ;  and  Plato, 


42  THE    SEARCH    FOR    HAPPINESS. 

the  philosopher,  said  that  exercise  would  almost  cure  a 
guilty  conscience. 

"In  all  labour  there  is  profit,"  says  the  wise  man. 
Of  course,  he  meant  honest  labour ;  and  the  man  who 
does  his  duty  honestly  and  diligently  in  his  vocation, 
ptedily  following  up  the  duty  that  lies  immediately  before 
him,  such  an  one  adds  worth  to  his  character  and  dignity 
10  his  manhood,  and,  while  promoting  his  own  interests, 
subserves  the  welfare  of  others. 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  HAPPINESS. 

ON  a  low  couch  in  an  apartment  which  plainly  evinced 
the  wealth  and  luxury  of  its  occupant,  sat,  or  rather  re 
clined,  a  maiden  of  apparently  about  eighteen  summers, 
absorbed  in  deep  and  somewhat  anxious  thought. 

Few  who  gazed  upon  the  exceeding  beauty  of  her 
countenance,  and  marked  its  usually  joyous  expression, 
would  have  dreamed  that  a  cloud  ever  passed  over  her 
young  heart.  Indeed,  there  was  nought  to  mar  her 
earthly  happiness.  The  only  and  idolized  child  of 
wealthy  parents,  her  slightest  wishes  were  regarded  or 
even  anticipated.  All  around  her  was  beautiful  as  a  dream 
of  fairy  land,  in  her  own  dear  home,  and  when  she  mingled 
m  the  gay  crowd,  her  wealth  and  loveliness  gave  her  that 
precedence  which,  in  spite  of  her  better  judgment,  waa 
gratifying  to  her  heart. 

And  yet  the  fair  Eveline  was  not  always  happy.  There 


THE    SEARCH    FOR    HAPPINESS.  43 

were  moments  when  her  soul  yearned  for  an  indefinable 
something  which  she  felt  that  neither  rank  nor  beauty 
could  bestow.  A  desire  to  fulfil  more  perfectly  the  ob 
ject  of  her  being,  to  suffer  her  thoughts  and  affections 
to  expand  beyond  the  routine  of  selfish  pleasures  in  which 
her  daily  life  was  passed,  had  taken  possession  of  her 
mind,  and  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  room  she  often 
passed  sad  hours  of  reflection,  unsuspected  by  her  gay 
companions,  or  by  the  fond  parents  who  so  tenderly 
watched  over  her. 

"  Happiness  !"  she  would  sometimes  exclaim.  "  What 
is  it  ?  The  shadow  men  do  indeed  possess,  but  not  the 
reality.  That  is  beyond  our  ken.  It  belongcth  not  to 
mortals.  Wherefore  then  am  I  thus  dissatisfied  ?  Where 
fore  this  continual  striving  for  what  I  may  not  hope  to 
gain  ?" 

With  her  mind  oppressed  with  these  reflections,  Eve 
line  slept  upon  the  couch  where  she  had  thrown  herself 
that  she  might  indulge  them  undisturbed.  We  say  she 
slept,  but  can  that  state  be  called  sleep,  where  the  soul, 
freed  for  a  brief  season  from  its  earthly  fetters,  gains 
new  strength  and  vigour  while  holding  close  communion 
with  those  heavenly  friends  whom  it  can  then  mtet  face 
t^  face  in  its  home  in  the  spirit-land ! 

While  Eveline  was  thus  apparently  sleeping  in  her  own 
apartment,  she  found  herself  in  a  garden,  the  surpass 
ing  beauty  of  which  far  exceeded  aught  that  she  had 
ever  seen  on  earth.  Flowers  of  the  most  varied  and 
brilliant  hues  were  breathing  forth  the  most  delightful 
perfumes;  birds  of  the  richest  plumage  filled  the  air 
with  their  melody  as  they  sported  among  the  foliage  of 


44  THE   SEARCH    FOR    HAPPINESS. 

the  trees ;  fruits  of  delicious  flavour  hung  temptingly 
within  her  reach;  the  very  air  that  she  breathed  seemed 
to  sparkle  in  the  brilliant  light,  like  a  thousand  diamonds; 
while  the  sound  of  the  waters  falling  from  the  numerous 
fiuntains,  came  upon  the  ear  with  a  refreshing  coolness. 

For  a  moment  Eveline  gazed  with  astonishment  and 
delight  upon  the  lovely  scene  before  her,  but  again  a  feel 
ing  of  sadness  stole  over  her,  and  she  murmured  aloud, 

"  And  yet  all  this  beauty  does  not  constitute  happiness. 
It  is  but  the  shadow.  Where  is  the  substance  ?" 

As  she  said  this,  a  voice  gently  replied, 

"  The  substance  produces  the  shadow,  fair  maiden. 
The  lovely  objects  around  you  do  not,  indeed,  give  hap 
piness,  but  those  interior  principles,  those  thoughts  and 
affections,  those  active  endeavours,  of  which  all  these 
things  are  but  as  types  or  representatives,  they  consti 
tute  happiness  ;  they  are  the  substance,  the  reality  for 
which  you  seek." 

"Explain  this  still  farther,"  cried  Eveline,  as  she 
turned  in  the  direction  of  the  voice,  and  saw  standing 
by  her  side  a  shining  one  clad  in  garments  of  the  most 
dazzling  whiteness. 

Again  the  angel  replied, 

"  There  is  a  certain  latent  vein  in  the  affection  of  thf 
will  of  every  angel  which  draws  his  mind  to  the  doing 
of  something,  and  by  this  the  mind  is  tranquillized  and 
made  satisfied  with  itself;  this  tranquillity  and  satisfac 
tion  form  a  state  of  mind  capable  of  receiving  the  love 
of  uses  from  the  Lord  ;  from  the  reception  of  this  love 
is  heavenly  happiness.  This  is  the  origin  of  all  our 
joys ;  from  this,  as  from  a  fountain,  various  delights  are 


THE    SEARCH    FOR    HAPPINESS.  45 

perpetually  gushing  forth,  and  in  their  final  ultimation 
surround  us  with  what  is  externally  beautiful  and  lovely. 

"  In  the  world  in  which  you  dwell,  the  internal  and 
external  are,  alas,  but  too  seldom  in  unison.  Mortals 
are  often  surrounded  by  all  the  luxuries  which  earthly 
riches  can  procure,  while  the  interiors  are  closed  against 
the  heavenly  joys  which  their  Creator  and  Father  is  con 
tinually  striving  to  impart ;  and  those  who  possess  hea 
venly  riches  are  often  found  among  the  naturally  poor 
and  lowly ;  but  true  happiness  in  the  natural  world  as 
well  as  in  the  spiritual,  must  proceed  from  the  internal 
love  which  I  have  described.  The  love  of  use  can  alone 
fill  that  void  which  you  have  so  painfully  felt.  Without 
this,  the  external  delights  around  you  are  cold  and 
lifeless." 

With  deep  humility  and  attention  Eveline  listened  to 
the  words  of  her  heavenly  instructor,  and  in  thoughtful 
accents  she  repeated, 

'{    "  The  love  of  use.     What  is  its  nature,  and  how  may 
I  obtain  this  one  essential  of  true  happiness?" 

"  By  living  no  longer  for  yourself  alone.  Learn  to 
regard  the  rich  gifts  which  God  hath  seen  fit  to  bestow 
upon  thee,  personal  loveliness,  uncommon  talents,  wealth 
in  abundance,  as  instruments  in  your  hands  for  minis 
tering  to  the  welfare  of  others.  Even  in  the  cultivation 
of  your  own  mind,  the  love  of  use  may  still  be  your 
luling  end,  for  the  knowledge  which  you  acquire  ren 
ders  you  a  more  fitting  medium  for  imparting  good  to 
vour  fellow-beings.  Go  forth  among  the  sad  ones  of 
the  earth.  Clothe  the  naked,  feed  the  hungry,  whisper 
consolation  to  the  afflicted,  lead  the  sinner  to  rcper.t- 


46  THE    SEARCH    FOR    HAPPINESS. 

ance.  This  is  the  blessed  mission  which  hath  been 
assigned  to  me,  and  intense  is  the  joy  which  I  derive  from 
its  fulfilment.  Even  now  I  am  summoned  to  the  world 
of  mortals.  Accompany  me.  and  I  will  show  thee  at 
least  one  form  of  use." 

With  delight  Eveline  yielded  herself  to  his  guidance 
and  in  a  moment  the  scene  changed  from  heavenly  bliss 
to  earthly  wretchedness.  In  a  miserable  hovel  an  almost 
heart-broken  mother  was  weeping  over  her  suffering 
babes.  The  father  had,  some  months  since,  been  re 
moved  to  the  world  of  spirits,  and  her  utmost  exertions 
were  insufficient  to  maintain  herself  and  the  four  little 
ones  dependent  upon  her.  The  winter's  wind  was  whis 
tling  loud  and  shrill  around  her  dwelling ;  the  snow  lay 
piled  at  her  door ;  but  there  was  no  glowing  fire  upon 
the  hearth  around  which  the  widow  and  the  orphans 
could  cluster,  unheeding  the  storm  without.  All  was 
dark  and  desolate.  The  last  stick  had  been  burned, 
the  last  cinders  scraped  together,  and  now  nothing  re 
mained  but  to  draw  close  to  each  other,  and,  sheltered 
by  the  scanty  covering  which  the  poor  mother  had  thrown 
around  them,  to  look  to  death  as  a  release  from  their 
sufferings.  Many  hours  had  elapsed  since  a  morsel  of 
food  had  passed  their  lips,  and  when  at  length  the  de 
spairing  woman  had  resolved  to  beg  rather  than  to  allow 
her  children  to  perish,  she  had  been  harshly  repulsed  by 
the  first  person  to  whom  she  applied,  and,  sick  at  heart, 
bad  crept  back  to  die  with  her  loved  ones. 

Tears  fell  fast  from  Eveline's  eyes  as  she  gazed  upon 
this  scene  of  misery. 

"Oh,  give  them  instant  relief,"  she  cried.     "Little 


THE    SEARCH    FOR   HAPPINESS.  47 

did  I  imagine  that  such  destitution  existed.  Delay  not 
a  moment,  or  it  will  be  too  late." 

"  Earthly  mediums  are  necessary,"  replied  her  hea 
venly  guide.  "  It  is  not  granted  to  us  to  give  material 
aid.  Spiritual  comfort  I  have  already  imparted.  Look 
IKW  at  the  sufferers." 

The  mother  kneeled  beside  her  babes  and  prayed 
earnestly  to  the  God  of  the  widow  and  the  fatherless, 
and  she  received  into  her  soul  that  peace  -which  no 
earthly  suffering  can  take  away. 

"  Our  Heavenly  Father  hath  heard  us,"  she  exclaimed 
joyfully.  "  I  feel  that  we  shall  yet  be  saved.  Have 
courage,  my  children;  help  draweth  near." 

Even  as  she  spoke,  Eveline  found  herself  still  hand  in 
hand  with  her  spirit  friend  in  a  cheerful,  pleasant  little 
parlour,  where,  in  a  social  circle  around  their  bright  fire, 
sat  a  father,  mother,  and  five  lovely  children.  All  was 
joy  among  this  little  group,  and,  though  not  surrounded 
by  the  luxuries  of  wealth,  they  were  evidently  in  pos 
session  of  every  comfort.  The  youngest  child  sat  upon 
his  father's  knee  ;  the  elder  ones  clung  around  him, 
bringing  for  one  more  pleasant  story,  while  the  mother 
looked  upon  her  treasures  with  a  happy,  loving  glance, 
which  told  the  gladness  within. 

"Wherefore  are  we  here?"  asked  Eveline,  reproach 
fully.  u  The  widow  and  her  orphans  are  left  to  die." 

"Not  so,"  was  the  reply.  "I  came  but  to  seek  an 
instrument  of  good." 

The  angel  bent  toward  the  father,  and,  unseen  by  all 
but  Eveline,  breathed  a  few  words  in  his  car.  A  shado 
of  thought  passed  over  his  brow,  and,  for  a  few  moments, 


48  THE   SEARCH   FOR    HAPPINESS 

he  remained  silent,  unnoticing  the  caresses  of  his  child 
ren.  At  length  he  arose,  and  gently  placed  the  babe  in 
its  mother's  arms,  saying, 

"  This  is  a  hard  night  for  the  poor,  dear  Mary.  J 
think  I  will  seek  out  some  of  the  sufferers." 

uNot  to-night,  Edward,"  urged  the  wife.  "  It  is  so 
cold  and  stormy.  Wait  till  morning." 

"  I  may  then  be  too  late.  There  is  great  misery  even 
in  our  own  neighbourhood.  I  noticed  a  wretched  hovel 
to-day  which  I  am  told  contains  a  widow  and  four  little 
ones.  I  was  prevented  from  visiting  them  before  I  re 
turned  home,  but  I  feel  strongly  impelled  to  see  them 
ere  I  sleep.  Fill  a  small  basket  with  nourishing  food, 
and  seek  not  to  detain  me.  It  is  good  to  be  mindful  of 
the  poor." 

"My  mission  here  is  ended,"  whispered  the  angel. 
"  The  sufferers  have  found  a  friend.  Come  forth  again. 
We  will  stand  by  the  bed  of  sickness  and  death.  I  have 
there  a  labour  of  love  to  perform." 

In  an  instant  they  stood  in  a  darkened  room,  where  a 
young  maiden  lay  extended  on  that  bed  from  which  she 
was  to  rise  no  more.  One  glance  at  her  countenance 
showed  that  death  had  marked  her,  and  ere  many  hours 
had  passed,  would  claim  her  for  his  own.  In  silent 
anguish  the  fond  parents  bent  over  the  idol  of  their 
affections.  Eagerly  they  listened  to  the  broken  words 
which  escaped  her  lips.  There  was  sadness  in  the  tones 
of  her  voice  as  she  murmured  some  expressions  of  en 
dearment  to  those  around  her.  Life  was  to  her  bright 
and  beautiful — the  passage  to  the  world  of  immortality 
dark  and  gloomy — and  she  looked  not  beyond.  Waa 


THE    SEARCH   FOR   HAPPINESS.  49 

there  no  kind  friend  to  raise  her  thoughts  to  those  realms 
of  bliss,  of  which  the  beautiful  in  this  world  is  but  as  a 
dim  outline  or  shadow  ?  Was  there  none  to  speak  of 
the  infinite  love  of  her  Heavenly  Father,  who  saw  fit  thus 
early  to  call  her  to  Himself?  Alas  !  no.  All  were  too 
much  absorbed  in  their  own  grief.  They  sought  riot  to 
rise  with  the  departing  spirit  to  her  new  and  glorious 
home ;  but,  by  their  overpowering  sorrow,  rather  strove 
to  draw  her  back  to  earth. 

"  Here  there  is  indeed  a  great  work  to  be  done,"  said 
the  angel.  "  To  the  sick  girl  I  may  myself  draw  near, 
for  the  veil  which  obscured  her  mortal  vision,  is  partially 
removed.  See,  she  sleeps.  I  will  approach  and  minister 
to  her  wants.  Remain  where  you  are.  You,  too,  are 
invisible  to  mortal  eyes.  Listen  to  the  instructions  of 
him  who  through  my  agency  will  speak  consolation  to 
the  hearts  of  the  bereaved  parents.  Already  he  draweth 
near." 

As  the  spirit  spake,  Eveline  looked  and  beheld  a 
venerable  old  man  entering  the  apartment.  His  benevo 
lent  countenance  wore  an  expression  of  the  tenderest 
pity  and  commiseration  as  in  soothing  accents  he  ad 
dressed  the  afflicted  ones.  He  entered  fully  into  their 
grief,  and  descended  with  them  into  the  dark  valley. 
But  gradually  he  led  them  to  look  beyond — to  rise  above 
the  clouds  which  had  gathered  around  them — to  look 
upon  death  as  the  messenger  of  life,  immortal  life.  The 
frail  and  perishable  body  was  indeed  to  be  laid  aside,  but 
the  freed  spirit  would  rejoice  in  its  new  birth. 

The  sufferer  awoke,  but  all  was  changed  around  her. 
The  mother  bent  over  her,  whispering  worls  of  faith 


50  THE  SEARCH  FOR  HAPPINESS. 

and  hope ;  the  father  clasped  her  hand  in  his,  and 
breathed  an  earnest  prayer ;  her  own  thoughts  and  feel 
ings  were  no  longer  sad  and  earth-bound.  She  looked 
upward  to  her  heavenly  home ;  perfect  peace  was  in  her 
heart,  a  radiant  smile  played  upon  her  lips.  She 
breathed  a  few  words  of  happiness  and  love,  and  calmly 
sunk  to  rest,  like  a  wearied  infant  upon  its  mother's 
bosom. 

With  intense  interest  Eveline  stood  gazing  upon  this 
scene,  when  a  light  touch  aroused  her. 

"  Come  forth,"  whispered  her  guide.  "  Other  minis 
tering  spirits  will  now  fill  my  place.  My  duty  calls  mo 
elsewhere." 

They  stood  together  in  a  quiet  churchyard.  Around 
them  were  the  monuments  which  affection  rears  to  the 
memory  of  departed  friends.  It  was  the  twilight  hour, 
and  the  most  profound  stillness  reigned.  At  length 
Eveline  heard  a  low  moan ;  and,  seated  on  a  new-made 
grave  at  a  short  distance  from  her,  she  saw  a  lady,  some 
what  past  the  prime  of  life.  At  first  she  bowed  her 
head  in  silent  agony,  and  her  powerful  emotion  seemed 
almost  to  rend  her  feeble  frame.  Then  raising  her  eyes 
to  heaven,  she  exclaimed  in  the  most  piercing  accents 
of  bitter  grief: — 

"  All  gone !  husband  and  children,  father,  mother, 
and  friends.  Not  one  link  left  to  bind  me  to  earth  ! 
Nothing  left  to  love  !  Why,  then,  am  I  permitted  to 
remain  ?  Why  may  not  my  struggling  spirit  burst  its 
bonds,  and  join  the  loved  ones  who  have  gone  from  me  ? 
Oh  God !  look  upon  me  in  my  affliction.  Leave  me  not 
thus  alone." 


THE    SEARCH    FOR    HAPPINESS.  51 

"  Poor  woman  !"  murmured  Eveline  ;  "  how  great  is 
her  affliction !  Gladly  would  I  draw  near  to  her,  and 
endeavour  to  console  her,  or  at  least  mingle  my  tears 
with  hers;  even  sympathy  is  sometimes  consolation.  ' 

"  It  is,  indeed,"  replied  the  angel,  with  an  approving 
Bmile ;  "  hut  a  medium  is  already  provided.  Look  to 
the  right  of  the  lady,  near  the  white  stone.  What  see 
you?" 

"  A  lovely  child,"  answered  Eveline,  "  quietly  sleeping 
with  her  head  upon  the  turf  which  covers  another  grave 
of  recent  date." 

"She  slumbers  not,"  returned  the  angel.  "She  is 
listening  intently  to  the  words  of  her  whose  sorrows  have 
BO  strongly  excited  your  pity.  She,  too,  has  suffered. 
That  grave  contains  the  mortal  remains  of  her  late  only 
surviving  parent ;  and  the  little  one  also  feels  friendless 
and  alone  in  the  wide  world.  See,  she  rises  and  draws, 
nearer  to  the  lady." 

As  she  spoke,  the  child  quietly  approached  the  still 
weeping  mourner.  Tears,  not  for  her  own  sorrows,  but 
for  those  of  another,  were  on  her  cheeks ;  and,  placing 
her  little  hand  within  that  of  her  companion  in  affliction, 
she  said,  endearingly, 

"  You  need  not  be  alone.  I  will  love  you,  and  stay 
with  you  always." 

"  Who  are  you,  my  child  ?"  was  the  astonished  reply  ; 
for  the  step  of  the  little  one  had  been  unheard  upon  the 
soft  grass,  and  the  lady  knew  not  of  her  presence,  until 
she  felt  the  gentle  pressure  of  her  hand. 

"  I  am  an  orphan.  My  name  is  Ellen.  My  (Jcar 
father  died  many  months  ago,  and  now  my  mother  has 


52  THE   SEARCH   FOR   HAPPINESS. 

gone  too.  They  laid  her  body  in  that  grave  where  you 
see  the  \vhite  stone,  and  I  love  to  sit  upon  it  and  think 
of  her.  She  lives  in  heaven  now.  She  used  to  bid  me 
not  to  weep,  but  to  think  of  her  and  love  her,  and  try 
to  be  a  good  child  until  my  Heavenly  Father  should  take 
me  home ;  and  I  do  try,  but  there  is  no  one  to  speak 
kindly  tc  me  now,  and  teach  me  to  be  good.  They  give 
me  food  and  clothes,  but  they  do  not  kiss  me  and  love 
me,  and  call  me  their  own  darling  child,  as  my  poor 
mother  used  to  do.  You  have  nothing  to  love.  Will 
you  not  love  me  ?" 

"  I  will,  indeed,  sweet  one,"  replied  the  lady,  clasping 
the  little  girl  in  her  arms.  "  Our  Heavenly  Father  hath 
sent  you  to  me  to  comfort  me  in  my  grief.  I  will  watch 
over  your  tender  years,  and  be  a  mother  to  you.  My 
life  will  no  longer  be  without  an  object.  Another  bud 
of  immortality  is  intrusted  to  my  care." 

Eveline  still  lingered,  but  the  angel  whispered, 

"  It  is  enough  ;  my  task  is  ended.  New  duties  await 
me." 

The  night  was  dark  and  fearful  on  the  tempestuous 
sea,  and  high  on  the  mountain  waves  a  pirate  vessel  rode 
proudly  on  its  course.  Eveline  shrunk  closer  to  the 
side  of  her  heavenly  protector,  as  she  stood  with  him 
among  that  fierce  crew ;  but  his  gentle  words  soon  reas 
sured  her. 

"Recollect  that  we  are  invisible  to  mortal  eyes,"  he 
Baid.  "  Nought  can  harm  thee.  Even  here  there  is  a 
work  of  love  to  be  performed." 

"Surely,  not  to  these  wicked  men  I"  exclaimed  Eve- 


THE    SEARCH    FOR   HAPPINESS.  53 

line.  "  Nothing  of  heaven  could  find  admission  into 
their  hardened  hearts." 

"  There  is  one  among  their  number  who  may  yet 
be  saved,1'  replied  the  angel.  "  True,  his  deeds  have 
been  bloody  and  fearful,  but  a  glimmer  of  light  still 
remains.  A  pious  mother  watched  over  his  infant 
years,  and  the  remembrance  of  her  gentle  teachings 
still  steals  over  his  mind  like  some  long-forgotten 
dream,  awakening  tender  emotions,  checking  for  the 
moment  his  evil  course,  calling  upon  the  sinner  to  re 
pent  and  return  once  more  to  the  path  of  virtue.  Be 
hold  him  just  before  us.  Mark  well  his  countenance. 
Even  in  its  fierce  lineaments,  you  may  discern  an  expres 
sion  which  tells  of  better  things.  A  change  is  about  to 
take  place  with  him.  I  must  draw  near  to  him  in  his 
sleep,  and  endeavour  to  touch  some  tender  chord  of 
memory." 

The  pirate's  nightly  watch  was  ended,  and,  unheeding 
the  danger  around  him,  he  slept  securely.  His  dreams 
were  of  his  childhood's  home.  Once  more  he  was  an 
innocent  boy,  and,  kneeling  by  his  mother's  side,  he 
lisped  his  evening  prayer.  Alas  !  years  had  gone  by 
since  words  like  these  had  passed  his  lips.  Her  soft 
hand  was  upon  his  head  as  in  days  of  yore,  and  her  mil J 
countenance  gazed  lovingly  upon  him  as  she  repeated 
these  words  : — "  For  this,  my  son,  was  dead,  and  is  alive 
again ;  he  was  lost,  and  is  found." 

The  storm  had  passed  with  the  shades  of  night,  and 
the  morning  dawned  bright  and  beautiful.  The  vessel 
now  lay  at  anchor  on  the  shores  of  a  lovely  but  unin 
habited  island.  For  a  few  hours  the  crew  were  ac  liberty 


54  THE    SEARCH   FOR   HAPPINESS. 

to  tread  on  land  once  more,  and  gladly  did  they  avail 
themselves  of  the  privilege. 

Still  keeping  near  to  the  object  of  his  mission,  the 
angel  stood  with  Eve^ne  in  a  thick  grove,  in  the  midst 
of  which  the  waters  of  a  bubbling  spring  came  gushing 
up  with  a  delightful  coolness. 

The  pirate  threw  himself  upon  a  mossy  bank,  and 
seemed  for  a  time  lost  in  deep  and  painful  reflection. 
The  perfect  stillness  of  that  little  spot,  so  beautiful  to 
one  whose  eye  had  long  been  accustomed  to  nought  but 
the  vast  expanse  of  waters,  with  the  deep  green  foliage 
of  its  graceful  trees,  the  fragrant  breath  of  the  brilliant 
flowers,  awakened  feelings  which  had  long  been  a 
stranger  to  his  heart.  His  dream  came  vividly  to  his 
mind.  With  wonderful  distinctness  the  home  of  his 
childhood  was  before  him  ;  and  his  angel  mother,  surely 
her  hand  was  even  now  upon  his  heated  brow,  and  her 
gentle  tones  breathed  into  his  ear. 

Nearer  and  nearer  drew  the  ministering  spirit,  still 
holding  Eveline  by  the  hand. 

"  Must  you  still  work  through  earthly  mediums  ?"  she 
whispered.  "  Surely  there  are  none  on  this  lonely  island 
who  can  minister  to  a  mind  diseased." 

"  No  human  being,  indeed,"  the  spirit  replied ;  "  but 
the  Creator  of  the  universe  hath  many  mediums  of  good. 
Even  in  inanimate  nature,  the  fragrant  flowers,  the  wav 
ing  leaves,  the  gurgling  waters,  all  may  become  mes 
sengers  of  hope  and  consolation  to  those  who  are  bowed 
down  by  affliction,  or  who  have  wandered  far  from  the 
right  path.  But  see  !  yonder  comes  the  present  mes 
senger  of  peace;"  and  as  he  spoke,  Eveline  beheH  a 


THE    SEARCH    FOR   HAPPINESS.  55 

beautiful  dove  fluttering  slowly  through  the  air,  until 
she  perched  upon  a  tree  overhanging  the  spring. 

Absorbed  in  his  own  bitter  reflections,  the  pirate 
marked  her  not,  until  she  sent  forth  her  sweet  mournful 
notes  of  love.  Another  chord  of  memory  was  touched. 
The  sinner  could  bear  no  more ;  he  wept  like  a  little 
child,  and,  kneeling  on  that  lonely  spot,  poured  out  his 
heart  in  prayer. 

Then  solemnly  he  vowed  to  join  no  more  the  wicked 
band  who  had  led  him  so  far  in  the  sinful  way.  He 
would  remain  in  strict  concealment  until  the  vessel  set 
Bail,  trusting  in  Providence  to  open  the  way  for  him  to 
leave  the  island,  and  dwell  once  more  among  his  fellow 
men. 

"  It  is  enough,"  said  the  angel ;  "  my  present  mission 
is  ended.  Return  with  me  to  my  heavenly  home." 

In  an  instant  they  stood  once  more  in  that  beautiful 
garden  where  Eveline  had  first  beheld  her  friend  and 
guide.  New  beauties  now  surrounded  him.  Trees, 
birds,  and  flowers,  had  acquired  a  loveliness  surpassing 
anything  which  Eveline  could  have  imagined  to  exist ; 
and  the  angel  himself  seemed  encompassed  by  a  light 
und  splendour  unobserved  before. 

"  It  is  but  the  form  of  the  happiness  within,"  he  said, 
in  reply  to  the  maiden's  look  of  surprise.  "  The  works 
of  love  which  I  have  been  permitted  to  form  have  given 
me  the  most  interior  delight,  and  therefore  everything 
around  me  glows  with  new  beauty. 

"  Thou  must  now  return  to  the  material  world  which 
is  yet  thy  dwelling-place.  Bear  in  thy  heart  the  lesson 
which  thou  hast  learned.  Live  no  longer  for  tlyscl£ 


56  FRUITS   OF   SORROW. 

In  every  act  of  thy  life  have  regard  to  the  good  of  others. 
Happiness  will  be  thine,  for  thou  wilt  find  delight  in  use, 
and  this  is  the  only  source  of  true  heavenly  happiness. 
Farewell." 

The  angel  disappeared,  and  in  her  own   apartment 
Eveline  awoke  to  ponder  on  her  dream. 


FRUITS  OF  SORROW. 

I  WAS  recovering  from  a  long  illness.  Reclining  upon 
my  couch,  with  its  carefully  arranged  pillows  and  snowy 
drapery,  I  enjoyed  to  the  utmost  the  sensation  of  re 
newed  life  which,  with  increasing  strength,  thrilled 
through  every  vein.  The  sashes  were  raised,  and  through 
the  closed  blinds  came  the  soft  breath  of  a  June  morn 
ing,  bearing  on  its  invisible  wings  the  mingled  perfume 
of  a  thousand  flowers.  On  a  table  within  reach  of  my 
hand  stood  a  vase  filled  with  rare  exotics,  and  by  my 
side  sat  the  dear  friend  who  had  brought  this  beautiful 
offering. 

I  never  tire  of  gazing  on  flowers  ;  but  now  something 
inexplicable  attracted  my  attention  to  the  countenance 
of  Lucy  Latimer — a  countenance  which,  notwithstand 
ing  her  thirty-five  years,  still  wore  a  calm  and  mournful 
beauty.  Upon  her  features  beamed  their  usual  3weet 
and  benevolent  smile,  yet  at  intervals  a  convulsive  spasm 
distorted  the  small  mouth  or  contracted  the  broad,  fair 
brow,  and  I  thought  that,  more  than  once,  a  bright  tear 
glistened  in  her  downcast  eye. 


FRUITS   OP   SORROW,  07 

For  tlie  first  time  the  thought  flashed  across  my  mind 
that  there  might  be  "  a  story  "  connected  with  the  life 
of  Lucy.  I  had  known  her  from  my  childhood,  and  her 
course  had  been  ever  the  same.  She  had  few  pleasures, 
but  many  duties.  She  had  literally  gone  about  doing 
good.  A  true  sister  of  charity,  wherever  misfortune 
came  in  the  extensive  circle  of  her  influence,  she  waa 
seen  binding  up  the  broken  heart,  and  pouring  the  Dil 
of  consolation  upon  the  bruised  spirit.  For  all  ailings, 
mental  or  physical,  she  had  a  ready  sympathy.  From 
the  couch  of  the  sufferer,  hurried  by  some  devouring 
pestilence  to  the  confines  of  eternity,  she  shrank  not 
while  life  remained.  She  smoothed  the  pillow  of  the 
consumptive,  and  held  the  cooling  draught  to  fever- 
parched  lips ;  and,  above  all,  her  warnings  and  her 
prayers  often  led  their  object  to  exclaim,  in  true  peni 
tence  and  submission,  "  Not  my  will,  0  Lord,  but  Thine 
be  done !" 

Did  a  fond  mother  bend  in  agony  over  the  form  of 
her  departed  darling,  Lucy's  gentle  soothings  brought 
comfort  to  her  sorrowing  heart.  Did  some  young  wife 
Bee  the  husband  of  her  heart's  choice,  the  father  of  her 
little  ones,  stricken  in  his  prime,  and  borne  away  to  the 
silent  tomb — the  soft  voice  of  Lucy  awakened  her  to 
present  duties,  and  reminded  her  of  the  loving  care  of 
Him  who  is  *he  "  Father  of  the  fatherless,  and  the  widow's 
God."  In  short,  she  who  had  been  an  only  child,  and 
was  now  an  orphan,  seemed  never  to  feel  the  want  of 
kindred  ;  for  she  was  the  daughter,  the  sister,  the  beloved 
friend  of  all  who  suffered. 

"  Dear  Lucy,"  said  I  suddenly,  after  a  long  silence. 


58  FRUITS    OF    SORROW. 

during  \vliich  all  these  thoughts  had  passed  in  review  he- 
fore  me,  "  you  are  very  sad  to-day,  and  I  know  by  the 
dreamy  look  of  your  eyes,  that  it  is  some  sorrowful 
memory  of  the  past  which  thus  disturbs  you.  Will  you 
not  tell  me  what  it  is  ?  You  have  never  spoken  to  me 
of  your  past  life ;  yet  I  remember  having  heard  my 
mother  say,  long  ago,  that  your  youth  had  been  blighted 
by  some  fearful  misfortune.  If  it  is  not  too  painful,  will 
you  tell  me  about  it  ?  I  feel  that  I  can  sympathize 
with  you,  though,  before  this  illness,  I  have  hardly  known 
Borrow  or  pain." 

Lucy's  face  was  turned  from  me  as  I  spoke  ;  but  when 
I  concluded,  she  arose,  and  approaching  the  bed,  stooped 
and  kissed  me.  Then,  without  saying  a  word,  she  buried 
her  face  in  the  pillow,  and  gave  way  to  an  uncontrollable 
burst  of  tears.  Surprised  and  grieved  that  I  should  have 
caused  such  pain  to  that  dear  friend,  who,  under  all  pre 
vious  circumstances,  had  seemed  calm  and  self-controlled, 
I  mingled  my  tears  with  hers,  beseeching  her  forgive 
ness,  and  endeavouring  to  soothe  her  by  the  gentlest 
words.  But  the  repressed  sorrows  of  years  had  found 
vent  in  tears  which  could  not  at  once  be  checked.  After  a 
long  time,  however,  her  sobs  ceased,  and  when,  at  length, 
she  raised  her.  face,  nothing  but  the  mournful  expression 
of  her  moistened  eye  told  of  the  conflict  which,  of  late, 
had  raged  so  fiercely  in  her  soul. 

"Forgive,  my  dear  young  friend,"  said  she,   "these 
tears  which  may  have  seemed  to  reproach  your  kindness 
On  this  day,  the  anniversary  of  my  bitter  trials,  a  word 
recalls   their  memory  ;   but  believe  me,  your  gentle  ex 
pressions   of  sympathy  alone   could  have  unsealed  the 


FRUITS   OF   SORROW.  59 

fountain  of  my  grief.  But  I  will  tell  you  the  story  of 
my  youth,  and  then  you  will  cease  to  wonder  at  my  occa 
sional  hours  of  sadness  or  even  violent  grief 

"  When  the  month  of  June,  1832,  was  ushered  in,  I, 
like  you  now,  was  young,  and  lived  with  my  parents  in  a 
luxurious  home  ;  but,  unlike  you,  I  had  one  great  sorrow. 
I  had  been  long  engaged  to  Cecil  Alleyne,  a  young  cler 
gyman,  who  had  devoted  his  life  to  the  work  of  a  mis 
sionary.  We  were  to  have  been  married  on  the  first  of 
June,  and  to  have  gone  out  to  India  as  missionaries.  But 
Cecil  was  in  declining  health.  A  cold,  taken  during  the 
previous  winter,  while  in  the  exercise  of  parochial  duties, 
had  preyed  upon  a  delicate  constitution,  and  it  was  now 
feared  that  that  scourge  of  northern  climates,  consump 
tion,  had  marked  him  for  its  prey.  At  the  time  appointed 
for  our  marriage  and  embarkation,  he  was  too  ill  to  leave 
his  room,  and  the  ship  sailed  without  us. 

"  You  may  well  believe  that  it  was  a  bitter  trial  to 
this  noble  young  man,  full  of  earnest  enthusiasm  in  the 
cause  he  had  espoused,  to  be  thus  cut  short  in  a  career 
which  promised  to  be  one  of  more  than  ordinary  useful 
ness.  But  he  bowed  meekly  to  his  Maker's  will,  with 
scarcely  a  murmur  at  the  blighting  of  all  his  hopes. 
But  with  little  of  his  child-like  confidence  in  our  hea- 
renly  Father,  I  rose  in  fierce  rebellion  at  this  unexpected 
disappointment.  Alas !  how  little  did  I  dream  of  the 
sorrows  yet  in  store  for  me !  or  how  soon  my  proud 
heart  would  be  humbled  by  repeated  afflictions ! 

"  Cecil's  father  lived  at  S ,  six  miles  from  my 

own  home,  and  thither,  at  an  early  hour,  I  was  sum 
moned  on  the  16th  of  June.     Cecil  was  very  ill,  the  old 


FRUITS   OF   SORROW. 


servant  said.  He  had  broken  a  blood-vessel  during  iho 
previous  night,  and,  believing  that  his  hours  were  num 
bered.  he  earnestly  desired  to  see  me. 

u  I  had  returned  from  S  -  but  a  few  days  before, 
and  left  him  apparently  better—  so  much  so,  that  we 
had  planned  a  quiet  marriage  as  soon  as  he  should  be 
able  to  ride  over  to  us.  For  this  I  was,  if  possible, 
more  anxious  than  himself,  that  I  might  gain  the  sweet 
privilege  of  being  his  constant  nurse.  Thus  when  I  saw 
Mr.  Alleyne's  carriage  drive  to  the  gate,  I  ran  eagerly 
down  the  path,  expecting  to  see  dear  Cecil  alight  from 
it.  Judge  then  of  my  disappointment  at  the  intelligence 
I  received. 

"  Making  my  preparations  with  tearful  haste,  I  was 
soon  on  my  way,  and  anxiously  urging  greater  speed. 
The  journey  seemed  interminable,  but  we  arrived  at 
last,  and  springing  from  the  carriage,  I  soon  stood  by 
the  bedside  of  my  dying  Cecil.  The  bed,  for  freer  cir 
culation  of  air,  was  drawn  to  the  centre  of  the  apart 
ment.  Opposite  to  it  was  the  vine-covered  window 
which  opened  into  the  garden,  from  whence  rose  the 
perfume  of  countless  flowers,  the  busy  hum  of  bees  from 
the  quaint  old  apiary  in  its  sunniest  nook,  and  the  song 
of  birds  from  out  the  branches  of  the  magnificent  horse- 
chestnuts  which,  even  in  the  sultriest  noon,  threw  their 
cooling  shadows  upon  the  house.  Without,  all  was  life 
and  joy  ;  within,  gloom  and  the  shadow  of  death. 

"There  lay  Cecil,  but  how  changed!  The  pallid 
brow,  the  sunken  eye,  the  laboured  breath—  all  told 
how  swift  were  the  strides  which  the  destroyer  was  tak 
ing  with  his  victim.  But  a  holy  calm  sat  on  brow  and 


FRUITS   OF   SORROW.  61 

lip,  for  to  him  death  had  no  terrors.  A  bright  smil.e 
beamed  on  his  pale  face  as  he  saw  me,  and  he  feebly 
raised  his  arms  to  clasp  my  neck  as  I  knelt  beside  him 
and  wept  with  grief  that  would  not  be  controlled. 

"'Weep  not,  my  beloved  one,'  he  said,  in  feeble  ac 
cents  ;  '  mourn  not,  my  Lucy,  our  parting  will  not  bo 
long,  and  we  shall  meet  above.  Gladly  would  I  have 
lived  to  have  passed  the  years  with  you  here ;  but  God 
•wills  otherwise,  and  let  us  not  repine.  Grieve  not, 
Lucy,  that  he  is  so  soon  taking  me  from  a  world  where 
poison  lurks  in  every  cup,  where  danger  follows  our 
footsteps  in  every  path,  and  where  the  blight  of  sin  is 
on  all  we  hold  most  dear.' 

"  With  a  violent  effort  I  controlled  the  manifestations 
of  my  sorrow.  But  it  was  his  office  to  cheer  me ;  the 
words  of  the  dying  infused  courage  into  the  heart  that 
was  so  soon  to  be  left  alone.  But  few  more  words 
passed  between  us,  for,  exhausted  by  the  violent  hemor 
rhage  and  long  suffering,  he  desired  sleep  to  refresh  him 
for  the  farewells  which  soon  must  take  place.  I  passed 
my  arm  beneath  his  head,  and,  after  a  glance  of  undy 
ing  affection  from  those  glorious  eyes  which  had  always 
beamed  with  love  for  me,  he  closed  them  in  a  soft  slum 
ber,  peaceful  as  an  infant's  upon  its  mother's  breast. 
His  sleep  was  long,  and  when  he  awoke,  the  shadows 
of  evening  were  falling,  and  the  honeysuckle  at  the 
window  had  filled  the  apartment  with  the  rich  fragrance 
that  twilight  dews  always  win  from  its  perfumed  chal 
ices.  It  seemed  the  fitting  incense  to  bear  the  pure 
Boul  to  heaven. 

"  This  slumber  had  been  refreshing,  and  Cecil  was 


62  FRUITS    OF    SORROW 

able  to  converse  with  his  parents  and  e\ery  member  of 
the  household.  Never  will  aught  connected  with  that 
evening  fade  from  the  memory  of  those  who  stood 
around  that  death-bed,  and  listened  to  his  inspired 
words.  His  glorious  intellect,  almost  cleared  from  the 
dull  film  of  mortality,  grappled  with  ideas  seemingly 
too  great  for  human  utterance ;  and  his  words  fell  upon 
the  ear  solemnly,  as  <  oracles  from  beyond  the  grave/ 
Never  had  the  lamp  of  his  affections  burned  brighter. 
Dear,  exceedingly,  as  the  loved  ones  who  now  surrounded 
him  had  ever  been,  in  this  hour  words  failed  to  express 
his  affection  for  them.  And  as  his  eye,  full  of  love, 
wandered  over  the  circle,  each  felt  that  the  bond  which 
connected  our  spirits  was  one  which  would  endure  to 
all  eternity.  He  spoke  at  intervals  for  several  hours, 
but  at  length  fell  into  a  quiet  slumber,  and  all,  except 
his  parents  and  myself,  departed  to  seek  repose.  He 
awoke  again  at  midnight,  and  with  kind  consideration, 
entreated  his  aged  and  grief-worn  parents  tc  seek  tho 
rest  they  so  much  needed. 

"'Lucy  will  remain  with  me,'  he  said,  in  answer  to 
his  mother's  remonstrances ;  i  she  is  young,  and  will 
not  feel  the  loss  of  sleep,  while  watching  will  make  you 
ill,  mother.  And  do  not  fear  to  leave  me,  for  Lucy  is 
the  gentlest  and  kindest  of  nurses.' 

"Left  alone,  hours  of  sweet  communion  ensued  be 
tween  myself  and  Cecil.  He  seemed  much  better.  He 
felt,  as  he  said,  no  pain,  and  at  times  his  voice  rang  out 
full,  clear,  and  harmonious,  as  in  health.  He  spoke  of 
our  early  love,  hallowed  as  it  was  by  many  pleasant 
memories,  and  besought  me  not  to  allow  the  current  of 


FRUITS   OF    SORROW.  63 

my  affections,  thus  suddenly  checked,  to  return  and 
jreatfi  bitterness  at  their  source  ;  but,  rather,  that  I 
should  permit  it  to  flow  out  in  widening  channels,  till  it 
should  embrace  all  who  needed  love  or  kindness,  and 
till  its  blessed  waters  should  create  fresh  fertility  in 
desert  hearts,  and  cause  flowers  to  bloom  by  desolate 
firesides.  His  apparent  ease  lulled  me  into  security, 
and  I  almost  hoped  his  life  would  be  prolonged.  At 
any  rate,  his  words  gave  me  courage  to  live  and  perform 
my  appointed  work,  and  to  await  with  patience  our  re 
union  in  heaven. 

"  After  a  time,  he  was  silent,  and  lay  motionless  and 
with  closed  eyes.  Alarmed  by  his  death-like  stillness, 
I  arose  and  knelt  beside  his  pillow  to  listen  to  his 
breathing.  He  moved  slightly  as  my  lips  touched  his, 
and  murmured,  as  I  thought,  a  few  incoherent  words 
of  prayer. 

"  I  remembered  no  more,  till  I  awoke  with  a  start  an 
hour  after,  and  found  the  gray  light  of  early  dawn 
struggling  with  the  dying  flame  of  the  lamps  in  the 
apartment,  and  the  morning  breeze  blowing  chill  through 
the  open  windows.  But  colder  still  was  the  cheek  against 
which  mine  rested.  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  and  gazed 
earnestly  at  the  pale,  upturned  face.  Alas  !  it  was  the 
face  of  the  dead  ! 

"  Oh,  the  agony  of  that  moment !  With  a  wild, 
thrilling  shriek,  the  wail  of  a  breaking  heart,  I  sank 
fainting  upon  the  floor. 

"  It  was  a  long  time  before  consciousness  returned, 
and  then  my  first  thought  went  back  to  that  dying 
scene.  I  attempted  to  rise,  but  still  faint,  I  fell  back 


G4  FRUITS    OF    SORROW. 

upon  the  pillow.  But,  after  a  time,  strength  returned, 
and  I  arose  and  returned  to  Cecil's  room.  A  long, 
white  object  lay  in  the  centre  of  the  apartment,  for 
hours  had  passed  and  his  remains  had  been  prepared 
for  the  grave.  It  was  long  before  I  could  summon  cou 
rage  to  look  upon  the  face  of  the  dead  ;  but  at  length 
I  raised  the  snowy  linen  that  covered  it,  and  all  my 
wild,  rebellious  feelings  were  rebuked  by  the  calm  and 
placid  smile  which  rested  upon  those  features,  to  which 
even  death  could  not  impart  rigidity.  It  told  of  peace 
and  perfect  joy,  and,  as  I  gazed,  there  grew  in  my  soul 
a  sweet  calm  and  resignation. 

"  I  sat  many  hours  with  the  grief-stricken  parents, 
beside  that  shrouded  form.  Noon  came  and  passed,  and 
the  day  was  waning  to  its  close,  when  a  messenger  ar 
rived  from  my  home,  and  I  was  summoned  from  my 
mournful  vigil  to  meet  him  in  the  hall.  He  was  a 
stranger,  but  his  face  expressed  sympathy. 

" '  It  grieves  me  much,  Miss  Latimer,'  said  he,  'to  be 
the  bearer  of  unpleasant  tidings,  more  especially  as  I 
have  just  learned  the  sad  event  which  has  occurred  here. 

But  I  am  directed  by  Dr.  S to  summon  you  to  your 

parents,  who  are  both  attacked  by  the  cholera,  which, 
withm  the  last  twenty-four  hours,  has  appeared  in  our 
city.  My  carriage  is  at  the  door,  and  I  will  return  aa 
soon  as  you  are  ready.' 

"  I  listened  like  one  entranced.  Cecil  dead,  my  pa 
rents  perhaps  dying  !  Yet  I  had  left  them  in  health  but 
a  day  since.  I  must  fly  to  them,  yet  could  I  leave  the 
dear  remains  of  Cecil  ?  But  I  thought  of  his  words  of 
the  preceding  night,  and  they  gave  me  courage.  With 


FRUITS   OF    SORROW.  65 

desperate  calmness  I  ascended  to  the  apartment  of  death, 
pressed  my  last  kiss  on  Cecil's  cold  brow,  bade  farewell 
to  the  bereaved  parents,  and  in  a  few  moments  found 
myself  retracing  the  road  I  had  travelled  yesterday  on 
a  similar  errand. 

"  Such  was  the  wild  tumult  of  my  thoughts,  that  I 
scarcely  noted  the  lapse  of  time  before  I  reached  my 
home.  The  sun  had  set,  and  in  the  dim  twilight  the 
house  looked  very  desolate.  There  were  no  lights  in 
the  windows,  no  sounds  from  the  open  doors,  for  nil  had 
fled  on  the  first  alarm  of  the  pestilence.  In  the  hall  I 

was  met  by  Dr.  S .  He  was  our  family  physician ; 

I  had  known  him  from  my  childhood,  and  never  before 
had  he  met  me  without  a  smile.  But  now  he  looked 
grave  and  very  sad,  and  I  knew  that  my  fears  had  not 
exaggerated  the  reality.  I  would  have  rushed  past  him, 
but  he  detained  me. 

"  '  Tell  me,'  said  I,  '  if  they  live.  Let  me  go  to  them 
at  once.  Do  not  detain  me  !' 

"  But  the  good  doctor  still  held  my  hand. 

"  4  Summon  all  your  fortitude,  my  dear  child,'  said 
he.  '  Can  you  bear  to  hear  that  your  father  is  no 
more '(' 

"<My  father!'  I  shrieked.  <  Oh,  do  not  toll  me  lie 
is  dead  !  And  my  mother  ! — let  me  go  to  them.  Do 
not  detain  me  ! — I  will  be  calm,  indeed  I  will !'  I  con 
tinued,  as  I  saw  the  look  of  hesitation  on  the  good  doc 
tor's  face. 

"  His  strong  arm  aided  me  up  the  staircase,  and  in  a 
moment  more  I  stood  beside  the  corpse  of  my  beloved 
father.  Still  cold  and  pale  he  lay,  whom  but  two  daya 


66  FRUITS   OF    SORROW. 

since  I  had  left  in  perfect  health.  Could  it  be  that  his 
pious,  loving  smile  would  never  rest  on  me  more,  or  his 
kind  voice  greet  my  ear  ? 

"  But  a  moment  I  lingered  there,  for  he  was  beyond 
my  aid,  and  my  mother's  moan  smote  my  ear  reproach 
fully  from  the  next  apartment.  In  vain  I  sprung  to  her 
relief ;  in  vain  I  called  her  by  every  endearing  name ; 
in  vain  were  all  my  cares.  An  hour  after  I  entered  the 
house  I  was  an  orphan.  During  all  the  watches  of  that 
terrible  night,  I  sat  alone  by  the  dead  bodies  of  my 
parents — utterly  alone,  for  even  the  good  doctor  had 
departed  to  the  bedsides  of  fresh  sufferers.  In  the  early 
morning  they  were  laid  in  the  churchyard,  and  when  I 
returned  to  my  splendid  but  now  desolate  home,  I  felt 
thac  no  tie  now  bound  me  to  my  race. 

"For  days  and  weeks  the  dull  apathy  of  despair 
rested  upon  my  soul,  and  I  wandered  about  my  once 
cheerful  home  without  aim  or  employment.  During  all 
this  time,  the  disease  which  had  made  me  an  orphan  was 
walking  with  fearful  strides  over  the  land.  Our  beauti 
ful  city  had  becom*  one  vast  charnel-house.  Day  and 
night  the  death-cart?  with  their  fearful  burden  went  on 
their  mournful  way  to  the  burying-places.  Happy  fire 
sides  were  fast  becoming  desolate,  and,  at  length,  the 
universal  wail  of  sorrow  pevced  even  the  dull  apathy 
which  had  fallen  upon  me.  I  roused  myself,  and  went 
forth  among  the  sick.  I  stood,  day  by  day,  by  the  bed 
side  of  the  pestilence-stricken.  I  wiped  the  death-sweat 
from  pallid  brows ;  I  bathed  the  convulsed  limbs ;  I 
prepared  the  healing  draught — and  many  an  eye  gazed 
upon  me  with  grat'tude  in  the  hour  of  suffering.  I  found 


THE   TWO   BEES.  67 

my  reward  springing  up  amidst  my  exertions,  for,  in 
ministering  to  the  sufferings  of  others,  my  own  were 
lessened.  I  blessed  the  dying  words  of  Cecil,  which 
had  pointed  me  to  an  antidote  to  my  own  grief,  so  un 
selfish,  and  so  complete. 

"  At  length  the  summer  of  1832  drew  to  its  close, 
and  the  pestilence  raged  no  more  among  us.  But  my 
attendance  upon  the  sick  had  introduced  to  my  notice 
many  cases  of  want.  My  sphere  of  duty  was  ample, 
nor  has  it  ever  lessened,  and  I  still  find  my  happiness  in 
contributing  to  that  of  others.  My  days  and  years  glide 
calmly  on,  and  I  await  in  patience  the  time  when  I  shall 
rejoin  my  loved  ones  in  a  world  where  there  is  neither 
sorrow  nor  parting." 

She  ceased ;  but  her  simple  story  had  left  its  impres' 
eion.  I  drew  from  it  juster  views  of  life  and  human 
responsibility.  It  has  left  me  wiser,  if  not  better,  anJ 
BO  I  trust  it  will  leave  my  readers. 


THE  TWO  BEES. 

ONE  summer's  morning,  fresh  and  sunny, 
After  a  month  of  cloudless  weather, 

'To  gather  in  their  choicest  honey 
A  pair  of  bees  set  forth  together ; 

Two  loyal  knaves  as  e'er  were  seen, 

Of  the  same  good  and  gracious  queen. 

They'd  not  gone  far,  when  in  the  air 
They  met  a  wandering  odour  sweet, 


THE    TWO    BEES. 

Which  led  them  to  a  garden  fair — 

A  cottage-garden,  plain  and  neat; 
Where  poor  but  liberal  hands  had  set 
Some  charming  beds  of  mignonette. 

And  fragrant  thyme,  that  filled  the  air 
With  rich  and  delicate  perfume, 

And  roses,  white  and  red,  were  there, 
And  dainty  hollyhocks  in  bloom, 

That  soared  majestic,  straight,  and  tall, 

Like  mighty  monarchs  over  all. 

(t  Hurrah  !  yon  garden-plot,"  said  one, 
"  A  large  and  luscious  spoil  will  yield,* 

"  Nay,"  said  the  other,  "  this  bright  sun 
Shall  tempt  me  further  yet  afield — 

Perchance  to  pass  my  morning  hours 

With  richer  and  with  rarer  flowers." 

So  one  within  the  garden  strayed, 
And  gathered  honey  all  day  long, 

Watched  by  a  little  bright-eyed  maid, 
Who  listened  to  his  joyous  song, 

And,  as  from  flower  to  flower  he  fiew, 

(So  busy  and  so  cheerful,  too,) 

A  life-directing  lesson  Irew. 

The  other  onward,  onward  sailed, 

But  joyless  was  his  flight,  and  dreary, 

And  soon  his  strength  or  spirit  failed, 
And  all  disconsolate  and  weary, 

He  called  the  garden  plot  to  mind, 

And  wished  that  he  had  stayed  behind. 

At  length,  to  his  profound  relief, 
Came  wafted  odours  in  the  air, 

And  welcome  glimpses,  bright  and  brief, 
He  caught  of  a  genteel  parterre ; 


THE   TWO    BEES.  G9 

He  hurried  on,  and,  in  a  trice, 
Alighted  in  a  Paradise! 

JIow  fortunate  at  last  was  he, 

Admitted  to  that  realm  of  beauty  1 — 
But  languidly  the  weary  bee 

Applied  to  his  appointed  duty, 
And  more  than  once  bewailed  the  fate 
That  gave  such  privilege  so  late. 

The  sequel  now. — At  eventide, 

When  both  the  bees  were  home  expected, 

The  one  came  early  to  the  hive, 
The  other  late,  and  much  dejected; 

The  one  a  precious  burthen  bore, 

The  other  half  his  wonted  store. 

The  queen,  who  ruled  with  inborn  right 

Of  sense  sublime  and  princely  spirit — 
Who  made  it  her  supreme  delight 

To  humble  pride  and  foster  merit — 
Summoned  forthwith  her  subject-bees, 
And  briefly  spoke  in  words  like  these  : — 

"  My  friends,"  said  she,  *'  the  richest  treasure 

Is  also  oftentimes  the  nearest, 
And  those  who  travel  far  for  pleasure 

Will  find  that  what  has  cost  them  dearest 
Is  far  less  precious,  when  'tis  earned, 
Than  the  cheap  happiness  they  spurned." 

And  men,  like  bees,  may  oft  regret 

The  folly  of  the  morning  hour, 
When  with  a  cold  and  stern  "  Not  yet/' 

They  hurried  past  the  slighted  flower, 
Which  had  abundant  power  to  bless 
With  years  of  honeyed  happiness. 


SPEAK   KINDLY. 

AY!  of  the  absent  ones;  those  who  have  wandeicd 
Tar  from  the  hearth-stone  of  home ;  who  dwell  beneath 
the  stranger's  roof,  or  in  a  strange  land ;  speak  kindly. 
You  are  sitting  by  your  own  fireside ;  brightly  shines 
the  firelight ;  kind  and  cheerful  are  the  faces  gathered 
about  you — old,  familiar  faces  they  are — the  wind  moan 
ing  through  the  trees,  shaking  the  casement,  or  rumbling 
down  the  chimney  ;  brings  to  your  heart  no  lonely  home 
sick  feeling.  You  have  heard  it  in  those  very  places  since 
you  were  a  child,  and  the  sound,  lonely  though  it  be,  has 
something  pleasant  about  it,  and  you  heed  it  not.  But 
as  you  recall  the  faces  and  forms  of  those  far  away, 
speak  kindly. 

They  may  be  sweltering  beneath  the  burning  rays  of 
a  tropical  sun ;  swarthy  faces  are  perchance  the  only 
ones  they  look  on,  not  one  they  have  ever  known  or 
loved,  and  their  hearts  may  be  turning  to  far  distant 
ones,  and  fainting  under  their  weary  load.  Then,  oh, 
speak  kindly. 

Speak  kindly,  for  another  wanderer  may  be  in  the  far 
away  north,  where  the  bitter  winds  are  howling  and 
shrieking  over  the  wide  and  desolate  waste,  snow-clad 
and  cold.  God  grant  that  the  streams  of  kindness  and 
affection  in  the  heart  be  not  chilled  or  frozen  by  contact 
with  a  selfish,  uncaring  world. 

Speak  kindly  of  thy  sailor  friend  on  the  tempestuous 
ocean,  tossed  hither  and  thither  by  the  restless  wave. 


SPEAK    KINDLY.  71 

And  even  if  he  did  desert  his  father's  fireside  for  the 
rough  deck  and  rude  hammock,  the  green  fields  of  his 
native  land  for  the  blue  ocean,  you  perchance  do  not 
know  of  all  that  passed  in  that  home  ere  he  left  it ;  you 
do  not  know  of  all  the  troubled  thoughts  that  went 
surging  through  that  restless,  unsatisfied  heart.  Judge 
not,  I  pray  you. 

Perchance  in  some  rude  home  on  the  far  off  prairies 
of  the  West,  sits  by  the  hearth-stone  one  you  loved  long 
ago.  Cold  words  may  have  been  spoken  ere  she  left 
you,  and  even  at  the  parting  there  may  have  been  no 
clasp  of  hands,  no  farewell  kiss  or  kind  word ;  but  dwell 
not  on  that,  think  and  speak  alone  of  the  hours  when 
you  loved  each  other.  Breathe  her  name  kindly  now. 

Speak  kindly  of  the  erring.  They  have  been  sorely 
tempted,  else  never  had  they  wandered  so  far  from  the 
path  of  rectitude.  Think  you  not  that  conscience  is 
enough  to  punish  them  for  their  misdeeds,  without  adding 
bitter  unfeeling  words  ?  Oh  !  remember  these  few  short 
words,  "  forgive  as  ye  would  be  forgiven."  Try  to  forget 
all  that  is  not  pleasant  of  others.  Forget  their  faults, 
for  you  are  not  without  your  share. 

Speak  kindly  of  the  absent ;  they  may  be  tossing  on 
a  sick-bed,  longing  for  some  kind  hand  to  smooth  their 
pillow  or  hold  the  cup  to  their  fevered  lips. 

Death's  angel  may  have  summoned  them,  and  stranger 
hands  laid  their  cold  forms  in  the  grave  beneath  a 
foreign  sky.  It  matters  little  where  our  bones  are  laid, 
for  our  death  slumber  will  be  a  dreamless  one.  But 
Yvhen  we  are  gone  I  wonld  have  you  speak  kindly. 

And  not  alone  kindly  of  all,  but  kindly  to  all.    To  th* 


72  SPEAK   KINDLY. 

parents  who  watched  and  guarded  your  helpless  infancy 
with  tender  care ;  in  whose  dark  locks  Time  has  wreathed 
the  snow  flakes,  and  whose  smooth  brows  are  furrowed 
by  care  and  sorrow ;  pain  not  their  loving  hearts  by  one 
unkind  word,  for  it  will  sink  deeply  and  rankle  long. 

Speak  kindly  to  the  brothers  and  sisters  about  you ; 
they  will  not  be  with  you  always,  but  when  they  go  out 
in  the  wide  world  let  them  carry  with  them  the  memory 
of  gentle,  loving  words  from  your  lips. 

To  the  one  you  have  chosen  to  bear  you  company  to 
the  end  of  your  life  journey,  speak  ever  kindly.  Let 
not  frowns  come  to  darken  the  sanctuary  of  your  home; 
no  unkind  words  with  their  endless  echo  be  spoken  there. 

Speak  kindly  to  the  stranger,  far  from  home  and 
kindred.  A  kindly  word  falls  on  his  ear  as  sweetly  as 
the  music  heard  in  dreams.  But  unlike  the  dream  sounds, 
it  will  live  on  in  years  to  come,  and  sound  as  plainly  in 
that  heart  as  when  it  first  fell  from  your  lips. 

And  the  old  beggar  that  crosses  your  threshold,  and 
with  quivering  voice  asks  for  a  crust  of  bread,  or  a 
shelter  from  the  storm,  oh !  I  beseech  you,  speak  kindly 
to  him.  "  Weary,  friendless,  and  forsaken,"  he  wanders 
on,  but  like  you  he  was  once  young,  and  perchance 
happy.  The  old  man  has  snowy  hair  like  your  own 
father,  and  you  would  weep  at  the  thought  of  his  being 
thus  desolate  and  alone.  You  speak  gently  to  him,  so 
Bpeak  to  the  old  beggar.  It  is  but  a  little  time,  the 
brief  years  we  are  to  remain  here,  and  life  has  enough 
to  teach  us  that  is  sad  and  sorrowful,  without  harsh  words 
from  those  around  us.  A  few  more  years,  and  the  sods 


TELL   OP   THEIR   VIRTUES. 


73 


we  now  walk  so  sclf-confidently  over  will  be  piled  above 
our  pulseless  hearts. 

I  ask  no  other  memorial  when  I  am  gone  than  to  have 
those  who  knew  me  when  living  say  that  I  ever  used 
kindly  words.  They  are  easily  spoken,  and  the  heart 
soon  grows  to  feel  what  the  lips  let  fall. 

Speak  kindly  ever ;  and  the  echo  of  those  words  will 
come  to  your  own  soul,  waking  into  life  a  beautiful 
melody  there. 


TELL  OF  THEIR  VIRTUES. 

NOT  of  their  faults,  while  we  are  allied  to  pool 
humanity,  but  of  their  virtues  let  us  speak.  It  is  one 
of  the  most  common  occupations  of  women  when  they 
sit  down  together,  to  discuss  the  merits  of  others.  Some, 
in  the  chaste  and  elegant  language  of  the  schools,  brand 
the  worthy  and  deserving  with  base  designs  and  false 
actions  ;  others,  in  the  coarse  language  of  the  unlearned, 
consign  their  victims  to  nameless  places.  Both  classes 
of  lady-slanderers,  dip  in  the  same  gall,  with  only  this 
difference ;  that  one  uses  a  fine  camel's  hair  pencil,  the 
other,  a  shoe-brush. 

How  often  in  forming  a  new  and  apparently  desirable 
acquaintance,  when  casually  speaking  of  some  one  out 
side,  have  we  been  pained  by  thoughtless  and  vituper- 
ous  remarks!  "Very  true,  but  did  you  know  she  was 
BO  bad  a  housekeeper?"  or  u  Were  you  aware  that  she 
has  a  temper  which  she  cannot  command  ?  or  a  husband 
whom  she  tries  to  manage?" 


74  TELL   OF   THEIR   VIRTUES. 

Now  it  is  an  evident  fact  that  all  have  their  faults- 
is  it  not  equally  certain  that  all  have  their  virtues  ?  A 
certain  person  may  not  have  the  vigilance  of  a  perpetual 
scourer,  but,  feel  the  influence  of  her  sunny  smile  ! 

See  how  the  cold  warm  in  her  presence,  and  the  sad 
forget  their  sadness.  Another  may  have  a  quick  tem 
per,  and  say  bitter  things  ;  but  when  the  pillow  is  crum 
pled  by  a  feverish  head,  and  feverish  hands  are  tossed 
outside  the  coverlet,  behold  her,  forgetting  self  in  her 
eagerness  to  alleviate  suffering ;  making  cooling  drinks 
for  the  parched  lipj,  and  softening  the  dread  visitant  by 
her  gentleness.  Another  lacks  in  something  else,  but 
she  ministers  to  the  poor,  and  the  needy  call  her  their 
friend.  Seek  the  angel  side,  dear  reader — it  is  always 
to  be  found. 

No  matter  how  poor,  how  wretched,  nor  apparently 
forsaken  of  good,  there  is  an  angel  side.  The  carrion 
crow  scents  the  vile  carcass  afar  off,  and  with  the  instinct 
of  his  nature  seeks  and  makes  it  a  part  of  himself.  So 
we,  when  we  seek  out  the  deformities  of  our  neighbours  to 
prey  upon  them,  imbibe  the  contagion  of  those  faults  and 
render  ourselves  less  pure.  We  should  set  our  faces  as 
a  flint  against  scandal — we  should — but  do  we  ?  If  we 
listen  with  pain,  is  it  not  also  in  silence  ?  And  if  we 
are  silent,  do  we  not  virtually  seal  our  approbation  to 
what  is  said  ?  Could  we  not,  if  so  minded,  in  that 
firm  and  quiet  and  yet  ladylike  manner  which  cannot 
offend,  decline  to  hear  harm  of  our  neighbours  ?  Instead 
of  that,  is  it  not  too  often  a  sweet  morsel — spiced  with 
interjections  ?  Do  we  not  join  our  censure  and  con 
dolence  ?  Do  we  not  hunt  in  the  corners  of  memory  to 


TELL    OF   Til  KIR    VIRTUES.  75 

bring  to  light  some  trifling  corroboration  of  the  affair  ? 
Are  we  not  profuse  in  our  pity,  which  is,  a  great  deal 
oftener,  pride  wilfully  misconstrued  ?  And  then,  worse 
than  all,  d«  we  not  too  often  consent  to  be  the  petty 
second  or  third  hand  retailer  of  the  sweet  and  scandal 
ous  item  ? 

Thus  confidence  is  destroyed,  and  self-respect  weak 
ened.  We  cannot  feel  in  the  presence  of  that  friend 
whose  enemy  we  have  become— inasmuch  as  we  did  not 
defend  her — as  we  felt  but  yesterday.  She  may  have 
charming  qualities,  but  the  shadow  of  slander  has  fallen 
upon  them.  We  are  on  the  qui  vive  to  interpret  every 
action  by  the  language  of  the  foe  whose  bitter  words  have 
poisoned  the  fount  of  confidence.  We  have  allowed 
ourselves  to  look  at  flaws,  and  consequently  we  search 
foi  them.  What  is  a  name  on  the  church  books,  or  a 
good  standing  in  society  in  the  eyes  of  God  if  we  have 
not  in  our  tongues  the  law  of  kindness  ?  Nothing,  and 
less  than  nothing.  The  divine  spirit  by  which  we  are 
taught  that  charity  covereth  a  multitude  of  sins,  can  see 
in  all  our  pretensions  only  the  tinkling  brass  and  sound 
ing  silver,  and  He  will  judge  us  accordingly. 

Oh  !  that  womanly  spirit  that  always  finds  something 
sweet  to  say  of  others,  how  seldom  do  we  meet  with  it ' 
And  yet  it  is  here,  bubbling  somewhere  from  some  fresh 
hearts  like  a  perennial  spring.  Almost  too  good  and 
gentle  for  a  viperous  world,  but  ripening  and  perfecting 
for  heaven.  Let  us  imitate  such  spirits;  let  us  emulate 
them,  and  strive  to  see  which  of  us  can  vie  most  success 
fully  with  each  other,  as  we  speak  of  our  friends  and 
neighbours,  in  telling  of  their  virtues. 


THE  IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN ; 

OB,  THE  TRAVELS  OF  TWO  SISTERS  TO  THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  BEAUTY. 

MUSING  one  day  upon  the  state  of  things  as  it  was  in 
the  Golden  Age,  and  especially  respecting  the  mode  of 
instruction  then,  when  there  were  no  writings,  and  when 
man  was  taught  what  is  true  and  holy  by  the  opening 
of  his  spiritual  sight,  and  thus  frequently  admitted  into 
spiritual  association  with  angels,  who  taught  him  the 
truths  of  heaven,  just  as  God  taught  Adam,  and  angels 
the  patriarchs,  I  fell  into  a  sound  and  most  delightful 
sleep,  and  dreamed  that  I  was  living  in  those  peaceful 
and  happy  times.  It  seemed  as  if  I  was  in  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  districts  of  the  earth  that  I  ever  beheld. 
The  sun  was  rising  with  great  glory  above  the  eastern 
hills  ;  the  dewdrops  were  still  upon  the  green  pastures, 
and  as  the  light  fell  upon  them,  it  seemed  as  if  the  earth 
was  covered  with  gems.  In  the  distance  there  was  a 
lofty  range  of  hills,  and  on  them,  here  and  there,  were 
planted  fine  tall  trees.  At  their  feet  the  flowing  of  a 
gentle,  pellucid  stream  murmured  agreeable  music,  "which 
harmonized  with  the  voices  of  thousands  of  sweet  feath 
ered  songsters.  On  a  gentle  eminence  there  was  a  sin 
gularly  beautiful  house,  embonomed  within  magnificent 
fruit-trees,  that  were  all  in  full  blossom.  An  extensive 
garden  surrounded  the  house,  in  which  were  long  shady 
walks  that  terminated  in  cool  grottoes,  to  which  the 


THE   IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN.  77 

owner  an<l  his  family  retired,  in  the  heat  of  day,  to  dis 
course  upon  things  of  everlasting  concern. 

This  gentleman  (for  we  must  speak  after  the  manner 
of  our  times)  had  two  daughters,  called  Chacune  and 
Aucune.  Chacune  was  extremely  lovely,  both  in  mind 
and  body.  Mild  as  a  lamb,  yet  majestic  and  noble; 
full  of  benevolence  and  kindness ;  and,  moreover,  she 
possessed  that  delightful  quality  that  always  inspires 
pleasure  in  others.  But  Aucune  was  just  the  opposite. 
Always  frowning  and  out  of  humour ;  wanting  and  get 
ting,  but  never  satisfied  ;  and  ill-tempered  with  herself 
and  every  one  else.  From  long-continued  indulgence 
in  evil  tempers,  her  body  had  lost  its  natural  beauty, 
and  had  become  the  impress  and  form  of  the  ugliness 
of  her  disposition.  For  a  sweet  mind  always  makes  for 
itself,  in  some  way  or  other,  a  beautiful  body ;  and, 
though  we  sometimes  find  good  and  virtuous  minds  in 
deformed  bodies,  yet  how  completely  is  the  deformity 
overshadowed  and  put  comparatively  out  of  view  by  the 
sweetness  and  beauty  of  the  disposition ! 

Aucune's  greatest  desire  was  to  be  as  beautiful  and 
as  much  beloved  as  Chacune ;  and  she  could  conceive 
of  no  way  of  being  so,  but  by  making  her  sister  as  ugly 
and  despised  as  herself.  For  some  years  she  had  been 
trying  this  plan,  by  beating  and  abusing  her,  tearing 
her  dress,  cutting  off  her  lovely  auburn  hair,  as  she  was 
Bleeping  in  the  grotto:  and  on  several  occasions  she 
even  struck  her  on  the  face,  with  the  intention  of  makino- 

O 

an  ugly  mark,  which  she  hoped  would  destroy  the  charm 
that  was  about  it.  Besides  all  this,  she  had  been  known 
to  break  into  neighbours'  gardens,  and  tread  down  the 


7S  THE    IMMORTAL    FOUNTAIN. 

flowers,  and  bring  some  away,  and  lay  them  in  her 
Bister's  bedroom  with  the  intention  of  throwing  the 
blame  upon  Chacune. 

These  were  some  of  the  means  she  adopted  ;  but  some 
"way  or  other  Chacune  remained  as  beautiful,  and  even 
more  beautiful  than  before ;  for  every  blow  that  she 
received  from  her  sister  seemed  to  make  her  still  more 
amiable  arid  lovely;  for  I  must  observe  that  in  no  case 
did  she  resent  the  unkind  treatment  of  Aucune,  and 
therefore  to  all  her  beauties  she  added  that  of  patience, 
forbearance,  forgiveness,  and  mercy,  which  are  those 
that  shine  brightest  in  heaven.  And,  notwithstanding 
all  the  wicked  and  deceitful  plans  of  Aucune,  no  one 
would  believe  that  Chacune  would  injure  any  one.  Thus 
poor  Aucune  had  the  mortification  of  seeing  Chacune 
growing  more  beautiful  and  beloved  every  day,  while 
she  was  becoming  more  and  more  deformed,  and  shunned, 
and  disliked. 

It  was  reported  in  the  neighbourhood  that,  during  the 
time  that  Chacune  slept  in  the  grotto  of  her  father's 
garden,  her  spirit  was  admitted  into  the  company  of 
angels,  with  whom  she  talked,  and  strayed  into  fields 
of  eternal  green.  It  was  also  said  that  the  angels  bathed 
her  in  the  Fountain  of  Beauty,  which  is  situated  on  the 
summit  of  Mount  Innocence,  in  the  spiritual  world,  and 
which  was  the  cause  of  her  surpassing  loveliness.  Au 
cune,  to  whom  nothing  of  the  kind  had  ever  occurred, 
had  often  heard  such  things  reported  of  others,  and 
when  this  was  said  of  Chacune,  she  became  much  inte 
rested  and  curious  to  know  the  truth  of  the  matter ; 
"  For,  perhaps,"  thought  she,  "  I  may  be  able  to  bathe 


THE   IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN1.  79 

in  those  waters  too,  and  then  I  shall  be  as  beautiful,  and 
as  much  admired  and  beloved,  as  sister !" 

The  next  morning  after  she  had  heard  the  report,  she 
hastened  to  Chacune's  bedroom,  and  stole  softly  and 
silently  along  the  passage,  and  listened  at  the  door,  ex 
pecting  to  hear  angels  conversing  and  playing  with  her. 
All  was  quiet,  however,  save  the  noise  of  some  sweet 
singing  birds  that  came  every  morning  and  warbled  their 
music  from  the  boughs  of  a  vine  tree,  to  awaken  Cha- 
cune  from  her  peaceful  slumbers.  As  soon  as  she  went 
in,  Chacune,  who  had  just  awoke,  asked  "  why  she  came 
so  early?"  "To  see  the  angels,"  said  Aucune.  "To 
see  angels  !"  said  Chacune,  with  astonishment.  "Why, 
sister,  how  is  it  that  you  look  for  them  here  ?  Do  you 
not  know  that  angels  live  in  the  spiritual  world?" 
"But  I  have  heard,"  observed  Aucune,  "that  angels 
bathe  you  in  the  Fountain  of  Beauty ;  and  do,  sister, 
tell  me  where  I  can  find  them,  for  I  long  to  bathe  in 
those  waters,  and  be  beautiful  also  !" 

Chacune  blushed  and  smiled  at  the  ignorance  and 
earnestness  of  her  sister,  and  said,  "  My  dear  Aucune, 
you  know  that  I  love  you,  and  would  do  anything  for 
you  that  I  am  able ;  but  I  cannot  show  you  angels  on 
earth,  for  they  have  not,  and  never  can  have,  material 
bodies.  Their  bodies  are  spiritual,  and  made  of  spiritual 
substances,  and  suited  exactly  to  the  spiritual  world  in 
which  they  live,  and  therefore  can  never  be  seen  by 
material  eyes."  "Then  how  must  I  see  them?"  said 
Aucune,  with  impatience.  "  I  will  explain  it  to  you, 
Bister  While  here,  you  are  an  inhabitant  of  two 
worlds—this  world  of  matter,  and  a  world  of  spirit ; 


80  THE   IMMORTAL  FOUNTAIN. 

and  you  have  a  body  adapted  to  each ;  one,  a  material 
body  for  the  material  world,  and  the  other  a  spiritual 
body  for  the  spiritual  world.  (1  Cor.  xv.,  44.)  Now 
listen,  sister,"  continued  Chacune,  with  earnestness; 
"  each  of  these  bodies  has  senses  peculiar  to  itself; 
and,  what  is  remarkable,  when  the  senses  of  the 
material  body  are  active,  you  see  men  and  material 
things ;  but  when  the  senses  of  your  spiritual  body  are 
active,  and  those  of  the  material  body  quiescent,  you  can 
behold  angels  and  spiritual  things  as  plainly  and  palpably 
as  you  now  do  the  things  of  earth ;  but  you  cannot  see 
.spiritual  beings  with  material  eyes.  At  what  we  call 
death,  we  put  off  the  material  body,  and  thus  shut  out 
the  material  world  for  ever,  and  then  live  eternally  in  our 
spiritual  bodies  in  the  spiritual  world,  which  will  be  as 
really  and  truly  substantial  as  ever  the  material  was. 
You  perceive,  therefore,  dear  Aucune,  that,  unless  the 
Lord  sees  fit,  in  His  good  providence,  to  open  the  eyes 
of  your  spirit,  you  will  not  be  able  to  see  angels." 

Aucune  was  sadly  disconcerted  at  this  information: 
for,  though  spiritual  intercourse  is  said  to  have  been  a 
circumstance  of  frequent  occurrence  at  this  period,  and 
for  some  time  after,  as  is  evident  from  many  similar 
events  being  recorded  in  the  Bible,  yet  she  had  been  too 
much  engrossed  with  herself  to  reflect  upon  the  nature 
of  such  things.  So  frequent  is  such  intercourse  said  to 
have  been  at  that  very  ancient  time,  that  angels  were 
the  common  instructors  of  man.  Indeed,  to  a  very  great 
extent,  this  is  the  case  now,  but  with  this  difference ;  then, 
man  was  in  open  and  manifest  communion,  and  talked 
with  angels  as  with  his  fellow-men ;  but  now,  doubtless 


THE   IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN  81 

for  some  wise  and  providential  reason,  they  minister  tc 
us  in  an  unseen  manner.  But,  though  unseen,  it  is  not 
the  less  certain  that  they  are,  even  now,  our  instructors  ; 
for  how  otherwise  can  we  account  for  those  new  and 
beautiful  truths  which  enter  our  minds  in  states  of  con 
templation  ?  Men  cannot  create  a  truth ;  they  must, 
therefore,  be  communicated  from  some  source,  and  that 
source  is  clearly  not  anything  extraneous  to  us ;  for  in 
such  states  we  are  more  withdrawn  from  external  objects 
than  at  other  times,  and  elevated  into  the  interior  recesses 
of  our  minds.  They  must,  therefore,  come  from  within  ; 
and  our  conversation  at  such  times  must  be  in  heaven  if 
our  thoughts  be  true,  and  in  hell  if  they  be  false.  From 
this  constant  ministration,  and  teaching,  and  nearness 
of  angelic  beings  to  us,  it  is  nothing  outrageous  to  sup 
pose  that  God  may,  even  at  this  day,  for  wise  and  eternal 
purposes,  close  the  senses  of  the  body,  and  open  those 
of  the  spirit,  as  he  did  often  to  the  patriarchs,  to  Elisha's 
young  man,  to  the  prophets,  to  the  disciples,  to  the 
apostles,  and  particularly  to  the  Revelator. 

Aucune  pondered  over  what  her  sister  had  said,  and 
almost  despaired  of  ever  being  able  to  bathe  in  the  Foun 
tain  of  Beauty.  One  day,  however,  after  being  more 
than  usually  anxious,  she  wandered  up  and  down  in  her 
father's  garden,  and  was  quite  overcome  with  her  feel 
ings,  when  suddenly  she  beheld  a  glorious  being  dressed 
in  white  garments.  His  face  beamed  with  love  and 
kindness ;  so  much  so,  that  Aucune  could  scarcely  look 
upon  it,  for  the  glory  that  was  about  it.  "  Young  im 
mortal/'  said  he,  as  he  approached  Aucune,  "  wo  have 
perceived  that  you  are  anxious  to  have  communion  with 
0 


82  .  THE   IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN. 

angels,  and  to  entel  the  spirit-land,  and  bathe  in  thn 
Fountain  of  Beauty ;  our  kind  Father  has  granted  your 
desire,  and  you  are  now  in  the  world  of  spirits."  Aucune 
was  astonished,  and  could  not  conceive  how  it  could  be ; 
"  for,"  said  she,  "  I  have  a  body,  and  garments,  and  here 
is  a  solid  earth  !"  and  for  some  time  she  could  scarcely 
believe  it ;  but  in  time  she  became  convinced  that  she 
was  not  dwelling  in  the  material  world ;  for  all  her 
faculties  were  a  thousand  times  more  free  and  sensitive, 
and  all  the  objects  that  surrounded  her  were  so  much  in 
unison  with  herself,  that  they  seemed  as  if  they  were 
the  things  of  her  own  mind  portrayed  before  her. 

"Follow  me,"  said  the  angel,  after  the  surprise  of 
Aucune  had  somewhat  subsided  ;  "  follow  me,  and  I  will 
show  you  the  way  to  the  Immortal  Fountain."  Aucune 
instantly  followed,  inwardly  exulting  at  the  thought  of 
soon  being  as  beautiful  as  her  sister.  So  entirely  did 
this  occupy  her  mind,  that  she  never  once  spoke  to  the 
angel ;  and  they  walked  on  in  silence,  until  they  arrived 
at  a  splendid  massive  gate  of  brass.  Over  the  top  was 
written,  the  "  Gate  of  Obedience."  Aucune  thought  it 
was  a  strange  name,  but  supposed  it  was  one  of  the 
peculiarities  of  the  spirit-world,  and  made  no  inquiries. 
"  We  must  enter  through  this  gate,"  said  the  angel,  who 
immediately  went  up,  and  lifted  a  ponderous  knocker, 
and  struck  three  times.  The  gate  was  instantly  opened 
by  several  glorious  beings  clad  in  a  similar  manner  tJ 
the  conducting  angel,  and  all  equally  benevolent 

"  Welcome,  welcome,  welcome,  welcome, 
Welcome  to  the  angel-land," 

said  they,  rejoicing,  and  in  t^nes  of  sweetest  music.   u  Im- 


THE    IMMORTAL    FOUNTAIN.  83 

mortal,  enter  our  happy  land,"  they  continued.  Aucune 
attempted  ;  but  as  soon  as  she  was  fairly  within  the 
Gate,  she  felt  an  oppressive  pain  upon  her  forehead,  her 
eyes  became  dim,  fear  and  trembling  came  upon  her, 
and  she  thought  she  was  ceasing  to  live. 

When  the  angels  saw  this,  they  sighed,  and  tears  of 
pity  rolled  down  their  cheeks,  as  Aucune  was  compelled 
to  withdraw  to  the  outside  of  the  Gate.  "  We  know  by 
this,"  said  the  first  angel,  "  that  you  cannot  reach  the 
Fountain  of  Beauty  ;  for  none  can  breathe  the  air  of 
our  land  but  those  who,  in  spirit  and  life,  are  like  us. 
Now,  this  gate  is  closed  against  no  coiner ;  for  it  is  the 
will  of  our  great  Master  that  all  should  enter  ;  but  when 
any  one  retires  with  pain,  we  perceive  that  he  is  unfit  to 
pass  through  our  land."  Poor  Aucune  burst  into  tears, 
and  earnestly  entreated  them  to  tell  her  what  she  must 
do.  "  Return  to  your  world,"  said  they,  "  and  hearken 
to  the  good  counsels  of  your  father,  and  by  all  means  do 
not  tease  or  speak  angrily  to  your  sister  ;  do  this,  and 
in  three  months  you  shall  return  to  us,  and  we  will  tako 
you  on  your  way  to  the  fountain."  She  turned  away 
from  the  gate  very  sorrowful,  for  the  task  appeared  an 
extremely  hard  one ;  and  once  or  twice  she  thought  of 
turning  back  to  ask  whether  some  easier  thing  would  not 
do ;  and  probably  she  would  have  done  so,  if  her  spirit 
ual  sight  at  that  moment  had  not  been  closed. 

The  first  object  she  saw,  on  her  return  to  the  world 
of  nature,  was  Chacune  watering  a  beautiful  bed  of 
flowers,  that  had  grown  surprisingly  since  she  had  no 
ticed  it.  "Ah,  there  it  is  again,"  said  she,  as  she  viewed 
with  vexation  the  success  with  which  her  sister  cultivated 


84  THE   IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN. 

her  garden;  "she  strives  to  do  everything  better  than 
any  one  else,  and  then  she  is  praised  for  it.  She  knows 
I  don't  like  it,  and  I  am  sure  she  does  it  to  tease  me. 
I  will  go  this  moment  and  trample  upon  the  bed,  that  I 
will ;"  and  away  she  ran,  quite  in  a  rage,  simply  because 
her  sister  had,  with  great  pains  and  care,  succeeded  in 
cultivating  a  few  flowers !  As  she  was  running,  with 
this  wicked  intention,  she  suddenly  stopped,  and  look 
ing  round  in  amazement  and  alarm, 

"Did  you  speak,  Chacune  ?"  said  she,  with  terror. 

"  No,  sister  dear  ;  I  am  just  making  you  a  bouquet 
of  my  beautiful  flowers.  Come  and  see  how  nicely  they 
have  grown !" 

"  But  some  one  spoke,  sister,  and  said,  <  Remember.' ' 

"You  must  have  thought  it,  sister,  for  I  heard  no 
one,"  said  Chacune. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  voice  that  spoke ;  probably  that  of 
her  guardian  angel,  who  was  speaking  to  her  spirit,  as 
God  called  to  Samuel  when  he  was  laid  down  in  the 
holy  place,  and  beseeching  her  to  remember  the  conse 
quences  of  such  wicked  conduct.  This  is  the  way  that 
angels  always  do.  They  call  into  remembrance  the 
instruction  we  have  previously  received,  and  strive 
thereby  to  withdraw  us  from  the  sin  we  are  tempted  to 
commit. 

This  warning  from  the  mysterious  voice  had  its  bene 
ficial  effect,  for  she  concluded  it  was  some  kind  admo 
nition  from  heaven.  When  she  went  to  Chacune,  and 
saw  her  flowers,  and  with  what  readiness  they  were  all 
bestowed  upon  herself,  she  felt  inwardly  ashamed  for 
having  suffered  such  unkind  feeling?  to  ^btain  influence 


THE   IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN.  85 

over  her,  and  resolved  from  henceforth  to  destroy  no 
more  of  Chacune's  flowers.  This  was,  perhaps,  the 
first  time  that  Auoune  felt  ashamed  of  having  done 
wrong ;  and  perhaps,  also,  it  was  the  first  good  resolu 
tion  she  ever  made,  that  was  not  afterwards  immediately 
hroken. 

Many  were  the  conflicts  that  raged  in  the  mind  of 
Aucune,  between  envy  and  jealousy  towards  her  sister, 
and  the  necessity  of  obedience  to  the  injunctions  of  the 
angels,  in  order  to  be  fitted  to  pass  through  their  land 
to  the  Fountain  of  Beauty.  It  was  not  in  all  cases 
that  she  conquered  ;  for  she  was  occasionally  hurried 
away  by  her  passion ;  and  more  than  once,  under  its 
influence,  she  positively  refused  to  do  the  just  desires 
of  her  father.  It  was  not,  therefore,  without  serious 
misgivings  that  she  looked  forward  to  the  end  of  the 
three  months.  At  last  they  were  over,  and,  as  she  was 
musing  in  the  shady  grotto,  her  spiritual  sight  was 
opened,  and  her  guardian  angel  stood  before  her. 

"Hasten,  sister,"  said  he,  "for  angels  are  waiting 
for  thee.  There  is  company  going  to  the  Immortal 
Fountain,  and  they  desire  thee  to  go  with  them." 

Aucune  made  all  possible  haste,  and  very  soon  arrived 
at  the  Gate  of  Obedience.  After  the  usual  knock,  it 
was  opened  by  an  angelic  band,  who  greeted  her  with  a 
smile  of  welcome.  On  entering,  to  her  surprise  she  felt 
the  atmosphere  most  delightful  and  invigorating ;  and 
every  breath  she  breathed  communicated  an  unspeak 
able  pleasure.  This  was  the  case,  too,  with  each  of  her 
senses ;  for  whenever  she  exercised  any  of  them,  it  was 
accompanied  by  most  exquisitely  delightful  sensations. 


86  THE    IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN. 

In  fact,  it  seemed  all  delight  and  pleasure ;  for  all  was 
so  completely  harmonious  and  one  with  herself,  that 
there  was  not  a  single  thing  that  she  could  wish  other 
wise  than  it  was. 

After  her  surprise,  the  angels  led  her  into  a  spacious 
hall,  in  which  another  company  of  angels  were  walking, 
and  seemingly  waiting  for  her.  They  each  came  and 
gave  her  the  kiss  of  affection,  and  bid  her  be  of  good 
courage  ;  for  they  perceived  Aucune's  spirits  were 
drooping  as  she  reflected  on  her  disobedience.  To  her 
great  astonishment,  she  found,  on  joining  them,  that 
her  garments  were  similar  to  theirs,  but  somewhat  dis 
figured  with  black  spots,  that  appeared  here  and  there 
upon  them ;  and  turning  round,  she  said, 

"  Stay,  and  let  me  retire  to  wash  away  these  spots, 
for  they  look  so  filthy." 

The  angels  smiled  at  her  anxiety,  and  said, 

"  You  cannot  yet ;  but  let  us  hasten  on  to  the  Foun 
tain,  and  you  shall  wash  them  there;"  and  so  saying, 
they  led  her  out  on  the  path  called  Beauty. 

The  atmosphere  was  still  delightful,  and  the  road  full 
of  interest.  It  was  wonderfully  formed.  There  was 
now  a  gentle  ascent,  and  then  a  slight  descent;  and 
yet,  on  the  whole,  they  were  continually  ascending.  It 
was  not  straight  forward ;  for  occasionally  they  met 
barriers,  which  caused  them  to  go  a  little  way  round 
sometimes ;  but  this  was  really  no  misfortune,  for  they 
were  invariably  rewarded  with  some  glorious  view  that 
they  would  otherwise  have  lost ;  or  they  were  thereby 
protected  from  some  great  danger,  which  they  saw,  on 
turning  the  corner,  was  concealed  behind  it.  As  far  as 


THE   IMMORTAL    FOUNTAIN.  87 

the  eye  could  reach,  there  were  magnificent  trees,  vari 
ously  gathered  into  clusters,  according  to  their  kinds : 
and,  in  rich  green  pastures,  all  kinds  of  cattle  were 
peacefully  feeding.  But  the  most  singular  and  interest 
ing  of  all  things  to  Aucune.  was  a  star  that  went  on 
before  them,  and  pointed  out  their  way,  just  as  that  did 
that  led  the  Magi  to  Bethlehem  !  The  angels  were  well 
acquainted  with  this  beautiful  object,  and  called  it  the 
"star  of  knowledge."  It  was  always  visible,  and  shone 
with  peculiar  splendour  during  the  shades  of  evening ; 
and  so  long  as  they  saw  it,  there  was  no  danger  of  miss 
ing  their  way. 

Aucune  travelled  on  with  her  angelic  associates,  who 
made  the  journey  still  more  interesting  and  instructive 
by  each  telling  some  story  of  wisdom,  or  by  describing 
to  Aucune  the  character  of  their  great  Master,  and  the 
nature  of  his  kingdom.  For  a  long  time  she  went  on, 
and  once  or  twice  she  thought  she  could  hear  the  flowing 
of  the  Fountain  ;  but  it  did  not  appear.  But  at  last 
she  became  weary  and  tired ;  and,  moreover,  she  began 
to  feel  the  same  oppression  and  difficulty  in  breathing 
that  she  experienced  at  first.  At  last  she  was  obliged 
to  stop,  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  said, 

"I  see  I  cannot  reach  the  Fountain  !  0,  what  must 
I  do?"  she  asked,  with  great  anxiety;  "  0,  what  must 
I  do?" 

"  0  sister,  fear  not,"  said  they,  in  tones  of  the  kind 
est  sympathy ;  "  we  knew  you  would  be  unable,  but  if 
we  had  told  you  so,  you  would  not  have  believed  us,  so 
•we  have  come  thus  far  to  show  you.  We  know  that 
you  have  not  been  altogether  obedient  to  your  father : 


8?  THE    IMMORTAL    FOUNTAIN. 

and  until  you  habitually  obey  your  earthly  parent,  anc 
all  the  commands  of  truth,  you  will  nevei  be  able  tc 
obey  our  heavenly  Master,  and  live  in  the  land  of  an 
gels.  Thou  must,  therefore,  return  to  thy  earth,"  con 
tinued  the  angels  with  earnestness ;  "  and  mark  !  thou 
must  not  only  implicitly  obey  thy  father's  just  desires, 
and  be  kind  to  thy  sister  and  friends,  but  thou  must 
change  thy  motive  !  Hitherto  thou  hast  desired  beauty 
and  loveliness  to  enable  thee  to  steal  away  thy  sister's. 
Go,  now,  and  learn  to  desire  blessings  without  wishing 
to  take  away  the  blessings  of  others.  Thou  shalt  never 
be  less  blessed  because  others  are  blessed  too ;  for  in 
the  hand  of  our  Great  Master  are  universal  blessings ; 
blessings  for  evermore  !  Do  this  for  six  months,  and 
then  thou  shalt  visit  us  again." 

If  the  former  disappointment  disturbed  her,  this  did 
in  a  tenfold  degree.  It  was  not  only  the  disappointment 
itself,  but  the  additional  task,  as  she  felt  it,  that  was 
imposed  upon  her,  that  overwhelmed  her  with  trouble ; 
for  she  supposed  that  there  was  little  value  in  beauty, 
if  it  did  not  make  her  an  object  of  praise  above  all 
others.  The  words  of  the  angels  had  puzzled  her  ;  and 
she  felt  that,  if  those  were  the  only  conditions,  she 
could  never  see  the  Fountain  of  Beauty.  She  returned 
sadly  and  sorrowfully,  hoping,  yet  fearing,  and  much 
disturbed.  But,  on  her  approach  to  the  gate,  the  an 
gels  met  her,  and  cheered  her,  and  gave  her  many 
assurances  of  ultimate  success.  They  bid  her  an  affec 
tionate  adieu;  and,  as  she  passed  the  gate,  she  heard 
those  in  the  hall  singing  the  following  words,  to  the 
mosi  soothing  music  she  ever  heard : — 


THE    IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN.  89 

"  Never  fear, 
Sistor  dear, 

For  beauteous  thou  shalt  be ; 
h  Thy  soul  prepare 

By  holy  prayer ; 
Then  the  fountain  thou  shalt  see." 

On  her  return  to  the  world  she  was  very  sad  and 
dejected  foi  some  time.  But  Ghacune  was  even  more 
than  usually  kind;  she  danced  and  sung,  and  brought 
her  ripe  fruit,  which  she  had  cultivated  with  great  care  ; 
endeavouring,  by  every  means  in  her  power,  to  raise 
Aucune's  drooping  spirits.  By  the  assistance  of  her 
father  and  sister,  and  a  few  kind  friends,  who  had  already 
observed  the  change  for  the  better  that  had  taken  place 
in  her  mind,  she  began,  at  last,  to  be  more  cheerful  and 
playful.  It  soon  began  to  be  remarked  by  all,  how 
amiable  Aucune  was  becoming,  and  how  kind  to  Cha- 
cune  she  was.  And  as  they  walked  abroad  with  their 
father,  it  used  to  be  said  by  the  neighbours,  "  Here 
comes  the  good  man  and  his  two  beautiful  daughters." 

The  first  time  Aucune  heard  this,  it  pleased  her 
mightily.  "  Two  beautiful  daughters !"  she  kept  say 
ing  to  herself.  "  Two  beautiful  daughters  !  Well,  I 
never  thought  of  this,"  she  continued ;  "  but  I  can  see 
that  it  is  just  as  the  angels  said.  I  am  not  less  blessed 
because  sister  is  blessed  too.  Who  would  have  thought 
that  the  praise  of  our  neighbours  was  so  sweet,  when 
enjojed  and  partaken  of  by  sister!"  She  gradually 
began  to  feel  more  and  more  this  truth ;  and,  in  a  few 
months,  it  became  a  fixed  principle  in  her  character  to 
deprive  Chacune  of  no  praise  and  good-will  that  their 
neighbours  bore  towards  her. 


00  THE    IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN. 

Aucune,  little  by  little,  began  to  feel  a  certain  delight 
and  pleasure  about  life  that  never  was  felt  before.  All 
those  who  had  avoided  her,  from  fear  that  she  would 
quarrel  with  them,  now  seemed  to  strive  who  could  be 
most  kind  ;  for  it  is  a  truth  worth  remembering,  that  by 
love  and  kindness  we  may  easily  beget  the  same  towards 
us.  There  was  one  very  benevolent  gentleman,  who 
was  called  "The  Wise  Man  of  the  Hill,"  a  friend  of 
her  father's  who  was  extremely  pleased  with  the  change 
which  had  taken  place  in  Aucune's  mind.  This  person 
had  great  possessions,  and,  having  no  children,  he  had 
determined  to  leave  the  whole  of  his  property  to  Cha- 
cune  ;  but,  in  consequence  of  the  wonderful  improvement 
in  her  sister's  disposition,  he  decided  to  divide  the  whole 
equally  between  them.  This  was  a  proof  of  the  superi 
ority  of  kindness  over  unkindness  that  Aucune  could 
not  mistake  ;  for  all  this  was  the  result  of  her  late  kind 
ness  to  Chacune. 

The  sisters  frequently  visited  this  gentleman,  and 
sometimes  they  stayed  two  or  three  days  together  en 
joying  the  beautiful  walks  on  the  hill-sides,  or  playing 
with  the  lambs  in  the  fields.  On  one  occasion,  as  they 
were  walking  out  with  the  "Wise  Man,"  Aucune  saw  a 
few  wild  flowers  growing  at  the  top  of  a  large  rock ; 
and,  without  saying  anything  to  her  companions,  she 
stepped  aside  arid  walked  up  a  steep  and  troublesome 
pathway,  that  seemed  to  lead  directly  to  the  flowers. 
She  did  not  perceive,  however,  that  the  path,  after  a 
little  while,  diverged  in  an  opposite  direction,  and  led 
her  completely  from  the  objects  she  desired.  She  toiled, 
expecting  every  moment  to  reach  the  top,  but  still  it 


THE    IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN.  91 

did  not  appear;  and  after  growing  weary,  and  being 
afraid  last  the  "  Wise  Man"  and  her  sister  might  leave 
her,  she  turned  round,  with  the  intention  of  retracing 
her  steps ;  but  as  she  turned,  a  female,  clad  in  very 
ehowy  robes,  bowed,  and,  with  a  fascinating  smile,  came 
forward,  and  said,  "  Beautiful  maiden,  I  perceive  you 
have  lost  your  way.  Come  with  me,  and  I  will  show 
you  one  nearer  and  easier  than  the  troublesome  one  by 
which  you  came."  And  so  saying,  she  beckoned  Aucune 
to  follow  her,  and  turned  down  a  good  broad  path. 
Poor  Aucune's  vanity  was  flattered  when  the  woman 
praised  her  beauty,  and,  without  thought,  instantly  fol 
lowed  after. 

As  they  walked,  the  woman  appeared  all  kindness 
and  sweetness,  and  said,  amongst  many  other  things, 
"At  the  end  of  this  path  there  is  a  fountain,  that  always 
makes  the  heart  glad,  and  life  happy,  and  the  counte 
nance  beautiful,  of  those  who  drink  of  its  waters." 
•'Indeed!"  said  Aucune,  with  astonishment;  "and  what 
distance  is  it  from  here?"  "Not  more  than  a  few 
miles,"  said  the  woman.  "Wondorful!"  exclaimed 
Aucune:  "how  astonishing  neither  the  Wise  Man  nor 
Chacune  ever  named  this  fountain !  This  is  the  very 
fountain  I  have  been  endeavouring  to  get  to  for  these 
many  months,"  she  continued  to  the  woman,  "and  I 
have  been  teasing  myself  so  long,  and  here  it  is  just  at 
at  hand!"  She  began  now  to  think  that  the  angels  and 
Chacune  had  been  deceiving  her ;  and,  to  surprise  them 
all,  and  to  show  she  had  found  out  the  secret  as  well  as 
they,  she  determined  to  solicit  the  artful  woman  to  show 
ner  Vhc  way  to  the  waters  at  once.  "I  will  do  it  gladly," 


92  THE   IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN. 

gaid  the  woman,  "for  my  name  is  Venus,  and  I  am 
appointed  to  wander  about  in  these  lonely  paths,  to  lead 
the  weary  to  rest,  and  to  guide  all  that  will  follow  me 
to  that  happy  fountain  of  ease,  and  mirth,  and  beauty.'' 
And  so  saying,  she  took  poor  Aucune's  arm,  arid  hastily 
led  her  away. 

The  Wise  Man  and  Chacune  had  walked  on,  expect 
ing  Aucune  would  follow  every  minute ;  but,  as  she  did 
not  appear,  they  thought  she  was  staying  to  gather  a 
bouquet  of  wild  flowers,  of  which  she  was  exceedingly 
fond,  and  would  follow  them  soon.  So  they  went  on 
and  left  her,  thinking  she  would  arrive  at  home,  at  least, 
in  time  for  dinner  But  dinner  time  came,  and  no  Au 
cune  appeared.  But  it  was  not  unusual  for  Aucune  to 
stay  from  dinner,  for  very  frequently  the  neighbours 
would  invite  her  to  stay  with  them,  and  therefore  her 
absence  caused  but  little  uneasiness ;  and  in  the  after 
noon  the  Wise  Man  and  Chacune  went  to  visit  a  friend, 
and  did  not  return  until  evening. 

In  the  mean  time  Vonus  led  poor  Aucune  along  and, 
in  the  most  winning  manner,  told  her  all  kinds  of  tales, 
some  of  which  shocked  her  at  first,  but  in  a  little  time 
she  entered  into  them  with  delight.  The  road  was  alto 
gether  shaded ;  indeed,  so  much  so,  that  the  light  was 
almost  excluded.  It  was' easy  and  cool;  and,  being  a 
gradual  descent,  the  walk  was  delightful  and  interesting. 
The  fountain,  however,  did  not  appear  so  soon  as  she 
expected.  She  had  heard  what  Venus  called  the  mur 
muring  of  its  waters,  for  an  hour  or  two,  but  it  'did  not 
come  in  sight ;  and  at  last  she  began  to  be  anxious  lest 
she  should  not  be  able  to  return  home  that  night. 


THE   IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN.  93 

"Never  fear,"  said  Venus,  "  for  I  have  fairy  legions  at 
my  command,  who  can  transport  you  back  in  a  moment." 
"If  this  be  so,"  thought  Aucune,  "  they  can  as  easily 
transport  me  to  the  fountain  at  once,  and  thus  save  any 
further  trouble."  But  when  she  named  this  to  her  con 
ductor,  who  was  always  ready  with  some  specious  put- 
off',  she  said,  "  The  day  was  fine,  and  the  way  beautiful, 
and  as  the  distance  was  so  short,  it  would  be  more 
delightful  to  walk." 

Thus  Aucune  travelled  on  ;  but,  in  spite  of  all  tho 
stories  and  artful  smiles  of  Venus,  she  gradually  became 
anxious  and  uneasy,  particularly  as  the  sun  was  setting, 
and  thick  thunderclouds  gathering  in  all  directions.  To 
add  still  more  to  her  anxiety,  they  began  to  enter  into  a 
dense  forest,  in  the  midst  of  which  Venus  declared  the 
fountain  was.  The  shades  of  evening  closed  rapidly 
upon  them ;  and,  before  they  had  proceeded  far,  the 
night  became  black  and  dreadful,  and  every  star  disap 
peared.  The  wind  moaned  amongst  the  trees,  and  at 
every  succeeding  blast  it  was  louder  and  louder.  Great 
drops  of  rain  began  to  fall  upon  the  leaves,  and  by  and 
by  they  fell  upon  the  travellers,  who  were  drenched  to 
the  skin.  Flashes  of  lightning  followed  in  quick  suc 
cession,  accompanied  with  loud  and  terrible  thunder. 
Trees  were  struck  down,  and  hurled  about  by  the  fury 
of  the  wind,  which  now  blew  a  complete  hurricane. 

Aucune  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  arid  ran 
lither  and  thither,  striving  to  find  a  place  of  safety ; 
but  everywhere  was  under  the  influence  of  the  storm. 
She  besought  her  companion  to  protect  her,  and  lead 
ner  back ;  but  the  true  character  of  Venus  now  began 


94  THE   IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN. 

to  exhibit  itself.  Aucune  was  now  within  her  power, 
and  it  was  seen  that  she  was  the  demon  of  the  storm, 
and  had  allured  the  poor  girl  into  the  forest  to  torment, 
and  if  possible,  to  destroy  her.  As  the  awful  flashes  of 
lightning  rapidly  followed  each  other,  and  shivered  the 
trees  to  atoms,  and  struck  Aucune  almost  dead  with 
terror,  Venus  laughed  and  rent  the  air  with  the  noise 
of  her  wild,  unearthly  joy ;  and  as  she  sung,  in  bolster 
ing  song,  in  derision  to  the  pitying  supplications  for 
protection  of  Aucune,  the  infernal  notes  joined  in  unison 
with  the  dreadful  howling  of  the  tempest. 

Poor  Aucune  now  saw  the  error  she  had  committed, 
and  avowed  that,  if  God  delivered  her  from  the  dangers 
that  surrounded  her,  and  gave  her  light  and  truth  to 
understand,  she  would  never  suffer  evil  in  disguise  to 
lead  her  astray  from  the  plain  path  of  duty.  And,  turn 
ing  from  the  wild  vagaries  of  the  demon,  she  covered 
her  face  with  her  mantle,  and  fell  upon  her  knees,  and 
prayed  and  said,  "  0,  Father  of  heaven  and  earth,  the 
God  of  all  children,  and  the  comforter  and  protector  of 
the  distressed,  look  down,  with  pitying  eye,  upon  the 
lost  and  awful  condition  of  thy  child,  and  deliver  me 
out  of  all  my  distresses.  I  have  erred  in  forsaking  thy 
paths,  and  I  am  now  beset  with  all  the  miseries  of  sin ; 
but  with  thee,  Almighty  Father,  there  is  mercy  and  for 
giveness.  Extend,  therefore,  thy  omnipotent  aid,  and 
lead  me  to  the  abodes  of  safety."  She  arose  from  that 
prayer  internally  comforted,  and,  on  looking  around, 
ghe  beheld  Venus  fleeing  away,  as  if  hastening  from 
some  dreaded  object ;  for 

"  Infernals  tremble,  when  they  see 
The  contrite  heart  and  bended  knee." 


THE   IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN.  95 

The  storm  gradually  abated;  and  the  twilight,  break 
ing  through  the  trees,  told  her  that  morning  was  ap 
proaching. 

But  what  was  she  to  do?     In  a  dreary  forest,  with 
no  path   to  direct   her   to   any   human   habitation,  she 
began  to  fear  that  she  should  die  of  hunger.     "  Fear 
not,"   said   a   voice  ;    "  thy   prayer  is    heard,   and  thy 
guardian  angels  shall  conduct  thee  to  the  abode  of  thy 
father."     Aucune  started  at  the  voice  of  the  mysterious 
messenger  of  consolation,  and  looked  round,  but  saw  no 
one.    Angelic  beings,  however,  were  ministering  to  her ; 
and,  as  they  directed  Hagar,  in  the  wilderness,  to  the 
blessings  she  wanted,  so  they  led  Aucune  out  of  all  her 
dangers.      While  she  yet  was  almost  bewildered  with 
astonishment   at  the  strange  flight  of  Venus,  and  the 
abatement  of  the  storm,  and  the  mysterious  voice,  the 
silvery  notes  of  a  trumpet  struck  upon  her  ear.     She 
followed  swiftly  in  the  direction  from  which  they  seemed 
to  come,  and  gradually  they  became  louder  and  louder ; 
and  at  last  she  heard  distinctly  the  sound  of  voices,  one 
of  which  she  recognised  as  Chacune's.     She  raised  her 
voice,  and  called,  u  Chacune,  Chacune,  help,  dear  Cha- 
cune !"     Chacune  heard  the  cry,  and  turned  her  beauti 
ful  pony's  head,  which  had  been  provided  for  her  by  the 
Wise  Man,  towards  her  lost  sister,  and  in  a  few  momenta 
she  was  embracing  Aucune.     Both  sobbed  for  very  joy 
tlru  they  had  met  each  other  once  again :  and  Chacune 
said,  in  gentle  rebuke,  "  0,  sister,  why  did  you  stray  ? 
We  have  been  seeking  you  all  night,  and  our  hearts 
bave  been  sorely  troubled  on  your  account."     "  Forgivo 
me,  sister,"  Aucune  exclaimed,  "  and  you  shall  know 


THE    IMMORTAL    FOUNTAIN. 

all."  The  Wise  Man  rode  up,  soon  after,  followed  by 
several  servants,  one  of  whom  dismounted ;  and  after 
all  had  congratulated  Aucune  upon  her  deliverance,  she 
was  assisted  upon  the  horse,  and  they  hastened  away, 
and  very  soon  they  had  left  the  forest  behind  them. 

As  they  travelled  along,  Aucune  related  the  adven 
ture,  and  told  how  she  had  been  deceived,  and  what  an 
awful  night  she  had  passed,  and  how  she  was  delivered, 
and  how  the  notes  of  the  silver  trumpet  had  directed  her 
to  them. 

"  I  knew,"  said  the  Wise  Man,  with  exultation,  "that 
my  trumpet  of  Truth  would  bring  her  to  us  if  I  could 
cause  the  sounds  to  be  heard  by  her.  She  is  not  the 
first  poor  soul  that  it  has  saved  ;  and,  by  the  blessing 
of  God,  it  shall  always  be  exercised  in  behalf  of  such 
lost  and  erring  creatures."  In  a  short  time  they  arrived 
at  the  Wise  Man's ;  and,  after  partaking  of  a  feast  that 
had  been  provided  to  commemorate  the  happy  deliver 
ance  of  Aucune,  the  sisters  departed  on  the* morrow  to 
their  father's,  who  was  astonished  at  the  adventure,  and 
thankful  for  the  safety  of  his  daughter. 

When  the  circumstances  were  known,  all  the  neigh 
bourhood  were  filled  with  gratitude  to  the  Lord,  that  he 
had  so  mercifully  preserved  Aucune ;  for  they  all  now 
began  to  look  upon  her  as  a  pleasant  and  good  sister ; 
and  she,  as  may  be  supposed,  was  delighted  to  perceive 
the  estimation  in  which  she  was  held  by  those  who,  pre- 
Tiously,  had  shunned  her. 

Her  time  passed  happily  on,  and  the  six  months  were 
soon  over.  And  as  she  was  reflecting  upon  what  had 
passed  since  she  was  in  the  spiritual  world,  the  Lord 


THE   IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN.  97 

again  opened  the  eyes  of  her  spirit,  and  the  same  good 
angel  stood  before  her,  and  with  a  smile  of  welcome,  led 
the  way  to  the  Gate  of  Obedience.  The  angels  them 
congratulated  her  with  a  kiss  ;  and,  to  the  astonishment 
of  Aucune,  they  seemed  more  lovely,  and  their  robea 
more  beautiful,  than  ever.  As  she  went  into  the  lofty 
hall,  she  was  still  more  powerfully  impressed  with  the 
beauty  and  elegance  of  everything  she  saw.  The  walls 
were  of  pure  alabaster,  and  numerous  figures  of  gentle 
beasts  and  birds  curiously  wrought  upon  them.  The 
roof  was  of  cedar  wood,  richly  carved,  and  supported 
by  pillars  of  porphyry.  The  light  descended  through  a 
dome,  and  had  a  rich  mellowness ;  and,  what  was  very 
remarkable,  it  seemed  to  be  living,  and  looked  like 
living  golden  light;  and,  as  its  beautiful  rays  played 
upon  the  walls,  it  created  wonderful  images,  that  por 
trayed  the  state  and  character  of  the  affections  and 
thoughts  of  the  angels.  ''Astonishing!"  exclaimed 
Aucune,  in  her  first  surprise.  And,  turning  to  the 
angels,  she  inquired,  "  Why  all  tilings  were  so  beautiful 
to-day."  "0,"  said  they,  "we  enjoy  all  these  won 
derful  and  beautiful  sights  every  day."  "But,"  said 
Aucune,  "  they  are  very  different  from  what  they  were 
when  I  last  saw  them."  "  Very  likely,"  said  the  angels ; 
"  but  then,  you  know,  you  did  not  love  your  sister. 
Now,  that  was  wicked  ;  and  wickedness  causes  a  denso 
mist  to  rise  over  the  mind,  which  distorts  and  perverts 
the  loveliest  of  objects,  and  thus  true  beauty  becomes 
complete  ugliness  to  the  wicked."  "  0,  how  many 
glorious  sights  I  must  have  lost  by  my  wickedness  and 
folly!"  thought  Aucune.  And  with  this  conviction  she 


98  THE   IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN. 

determined  henceforth  to  avoid  all  evil,  and  particularly 
all  desire  to  injure  her  sister. 

In  a  short  time  she  was  clothed  with  heavenly  gar 
ments  ;  and,  to  her  surprise,  they  were  as  beautiful  aa 
any  of  those  which  the  angels  had  on.  The  black  spots 
and  filthy  appearance  were  entirely  gone;  and,  in  addi 
tion  to  what  she  was  before  clothed  with,  there  was 
given  to  her  a  garland  of  sweet  flowers,  which  was 
placed  upon  her  head  by  a  tall,  majestic  being,  of  super 
lative  beauty  and  glory,  who  informed  her  that  that  was 
a  symbol  of  the  crown  of  life,  and  the  badge  of  sister 
hood  of  that  heaven.  And,  thus  robed,  she  proceeded 
^n  the  path  of  Beauty.  It  seemed  as  if  there  were  no 
necessity  for  a  guide,  for  the  way  appeared  perfectly 
familiar ;  but,  notwithstanding,  an  angelic  band  bore 
her  company,  and,  directed  by  the  star  of  knowledge, 
they  rapidly  proceeded  with  their  journey. 

They  travelled  on,  delighted  with  each  other,  and  every 
thing  they  saw,  until  they  came  to  another  gate,  composed 
of  solid,  shining  silver,  so  brilliant  that  they  could  scarcely 
look  upon  it,  and  over  the  top  was  written,  "  The  Gate  of 
Duty."  "  Here  we  must  part  with  you,"  said  the  angels, 
"  we  cannot  live  in  that  land,  for  it  is  much  more  glo 
rious  and  more  holy  than  ours.  In  our  own  land  we 
are  happy,  and  our  cup  even  runneth  over  with  bless 
ings,  but  our  spirits  are  not  fit  to  breathe  that  purer  air ; 
and  so,  for  the  present,  we  must  bid  you  adieu."  Aucune 
was  surprised  at  this,  but  said  nothing,  for  she  was  anxious 
to  get  to  the  Fountain.  The  angels  then  gave  an  affec 
tionate  kiss,  and  turned  away ;  while  Aucune  boldly  ran 
up  the  steps,  and  knocked  loudly  at  the  Gate.  Almost 


THE    IMMORTAL    FOUNTAIN.  99 

instantly  it  was  opened  by  a  glorious  being  in  shining 
white,  and  Aucune  entered.  She  told  her  errand,  arid 
the  angel  said,  "  You  shall  proceed  immediately."  And 
in  a  little  time  a  company  of  heavenly  beings  came  to 
her,  and  signified  that  they  were  ready.  Aucune  soon 
accompanied  them  ;  but  they  had  not  proceeded  far  be 
fore  she  felt  a  similar  oppression  upon  her  head  to  that 
Bhe  felt  when  she  was  obliged  to  return  before.  She 
knew  its  meaning,  and,  bursting  into  tears,  said,  "  Am  I 
not  pure  enough  yet  to  go  to  the  Immortal  Fountain?" 
"We  would  gladly  take  you,  dear  sister,"  said  an  angel, 
"  but  it  would  destroy  you  if  we  did,  until  you  can 
breathe,  with  pleasure,  the  air  of  our  heaven."  "What 
must  I  now  do?"  asked  Aucune,  almost  with  despair. 
"  You  must  again  change  your  motives,"  said  the  angels, 
"  hitherto  you  have  done  good  and  avoided  evil,  not  from 
a  sense  that  it  is  a  duty  you  owe  to  God  and  to  your  fel 
low-mortals,  but  that  you  might  acquire  some  selfish  good. 
At  first  you  wished  to  be  beautiful,  that  you  might  de 
prive  Chacune  of  her  neighbours'  love  and  praise,  and 
then  you  wished  to  be  beautiful  that  you  might  share 
them  with  her.  Now,  cannot  you  see  that,  in  both  these 
motives,  there  is  something  very  selfish,  particularly  in 
the  first  ?  You  must,  therefore,  return  to  your  world, 
and  do  no  evil,  not  simply  because  it  has  been  commanded, 
nor  yet  to  avoid  any  misery  or  punishment ;  for  the  one 
is  but  blind  obedience,  and  the  other  selfish  fear ;  but  you 
must  cease  to  do  evil,  because  it  is  a  sin  against  God,  and 
an  injury  to  your  brethren.  You  will  thus  gradually 
lose  sight  of  self  in  your  inward  motives,  and  do  good 
because  it  is  of  God,  and  for  your  ueighbouis'  benefit," 


TOO  THE    IMMORTAL    FOUNTAIN. 

They  then  bade  her  be  of  good  cheer,  and  trust  in  the 
Lord,  and  all  tl' e  difficulties  of  the  task  would  in  time 
be  overcome.  "  Return  to  the  world  for  twelve  months, 
and,  at  the  end  of  that  time  you  shall  come  to  us  again," 
Baid  they ;  and  parted  with  the  usual  kiss. 

At  first  Aucune  felt  great  difficulty  in  banishing  all 
idea  of  reward  from  her  mind.  But,  in  time,  by  constant 
attention  to  her  motives,  she  found  it  was  possible  to  "  do 
good,  hoping  for  nothing  again."  She  ceased  to  make 
any  more  bargains  with  God  by  saying  that,  if  he  would 
make  her  beautiful  by  permitting  her  to  bathe  in  the  Im 
mortal  Fountain,  she  would  be  kind  to  Chacune,  and  good 
to  all.  She  was  gradually  led  to  see  that  it  was  a  right, 
a  duty  that  we  owe  to  each  other,  to  do  no  evil  either  in 
thought,  affection,  or  deed  ;  and  thus  that  we  are  placed 
in  this  world  to  learn  to  contribute  our  mite  to  the  trea 
sury  of  human  usefulness  and  human  good,  so  that  we 
may  all  have  a  common  right  to  human  happiness.  After 
repeated  trials,  the  good  providence  of  God  once  again 
opened  her  spiritual  sight,  and  she  was  conducted  through 
the  Gate  of  Obedience  to  the  Gate  of  Duty  ;  and  on  this 
occasion  its  grandeur  and  magnificence  had  become 
heightened  to  a  wonderful  degree.  It  shone  as  if  ten 
thousand  rays  of  the  noonday  sun  had  concentrated 
themselves,  and  were  consolidated  into  the  form  of  a 
gate.  Aucune  knocked,  and,  at  the  solicitation  of  the 
angel  in  shining  white,  entered  ;  and,  as  she  looked  round 
and  beheld  the  astonishing  grandeur  of  the  place,  she 
trembled  lest  anything  should  be  injured  by  contact  with 
her.  She  was  first  struck  with  the  mighty  intensity  of 
the  light ;  for  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  was  placed  in  the 


THE   IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN.  ]U1 

midst  of  a  diamond,  on  which  all  the  glittering  rays  of 
a  thousand  suns  were  shining.  And,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  it  was  not  painful,  but  wonderfully  exhilarating 
and  delightful !  And  the  heat  that  was  with  it  elevated 
and  sanctified  her  whole  soul,  for  it  was  spiritual  heat, 
that  could  warm  the  heart,  and  kindle  up  the  best  affec 
tions,  and  produce  a  reverence  and  veneration  for  every 
thing  around.  The  angels  robed  her  in  pure,  shining 
white  gaiments,  and  set  out  upon  their  journey. 

Aucune  had  noticed  a  strange  peculiarity  in  the  cir 
cumstance  of  the  persons  of  the  angels,  and  the  scenery 
of  heaven,  becoming  more  beautiful  and  interesting  at 
each  succeeding  visit.  On  a  little  reflection,  however, 
she  perceived  that  the  change  was  in  herself;  for  in  that 
spirit-world  all  things  have  an  immediate  correspondence 
with  its  inhabitants.  Every  thought  and  affection  of 
angels  takes  up  an  external  objective  form  ;  and  thus, 
all  that  is  seen  in  heaven  is  the  outbirth  and  reflex  of 
angelic  minds.  Each  angel,  therefore,  sees  himself  por 
trayed  upon  all  that  surrounds  him.  Every  beast  and 
every  bird,  yea,  every  object  that  is  beheld,  is  thus  made 
a  mirror  to  reflect  the  inward  souls  of  the  angels  upon 
their  external  senses,  so  that  they  cannot  possibly  mis 
take  their  quality  ! 

This  is  one  reason  why  angels  are  so  singularly  happy; 
for  there  is  a  continual  harmony  and  correspondence 
between  their  state  and  external  objects.  No  annoy 
ances,  or  difficulties,  or  troubles  can  possibly  take  place 
with  them ;  for  the  desires  of  the  mind  flow  forth  into 
external  objects,  and  provide,  as  it  were,  for  their  own 
wants.  Here  is  the  reason,  too,  why  heaven  is  so  glo- 


102  THE    IMMORTAL    FOUNTAIN. 

rious,  and  hell  so  monstrous ;  for  goodness  and  virtue 
are  the  soul  of  real  beauty,  so  that  the  beauty  of  heaven 
is  the  reflection  of  the  goodness  of  angels.  And  wicked 
ness  and  vice  are  the  essence  of  all  deformity  and  misery ; 
so  that  the  dreadfulness  of  hell  is  the  outbirth  of  the 
wickedness  of  the  sinner. 

Just,  therefore,  as  Aucune's  state  improved,  did  all 
that  she  beheld  become  more  beautiful  and  delightful. 
She  was  gradually  brought  into  a  pure,  angelic  state,  and 
then  she  could  breathe  the  air  of  heaven,  and  associate 
with  its  purer  inhabitants.  And,  as  they  journeyed  on, 
they  beheld  each  other's  states,  and  wish,  and  life,  and 
glory,  reflected  before  their  eyes;  so  that  each  enjoyed 
bis  own  and  others'  pleasure ;  and,  in  blessing  others, 
they  became  blessed  altogether. 

They  saw  beautiful  palaces  on  their  way  ;  some  were 
of  polished  marble,  with  steps  of  alabaster  in  front,  and 
at  the  sides  were  pillars  of  jasper,  supporting  rainbow 
roofs.  Within  these  colonnades  were  angels,  walking 
two  and  two,  with  long  flowing  robes  of  shining  white, 
like  those  that  the  women  saw  the  angels  clothed  with 
at  the  sepulchre  of  the  Lord.  The  companions  of  Au- 
cune  told  her  that  those,  and  all  angels,  had  once  been 
inhabitants  of  the  natural  world  ;  but,  having  made  their 
spirit  perfect  by  the  divine  assistance,  they  were  trans 
planted  from  earth  to  heaven,  to  live  in  everlasting  bliss  ! 

Aucune  was  walking  on  in  silence,  contemplating  the 
remarkable  instruction  of  the  angels,  when  she  heard  the 
faint  notes  of  distant  music.  It  came  nearer  and 
nearer,  and  gradually  it  seemed  to  emanate  from  every 


THE    IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN.  103 

palace  and  every  angel  in  heaven  !     It  was  a  hymn  of 
pi  aise  to  the  Great  Creator,  and  the  song  was  this : — 

"  Holy,  holy,  holy  Lord  God  Almighty, 

"Which  was,  and  is,  and  is  to  cornel 

Thou  art  worthy,  0  Lord, 

To  receive  glory,  and  honour,  and  power ; 

For  thou  hast  created  all  things, 

And  for  thy  pleasure  they  are  and  were  created  I" 

Aucune,  almost  unconsciously,  echoed  the  loud-swell 
ing  song ;  for  it  was  in  unison  with  the  chord  that  was 
most  awakened  in  her  heart.  As  soon  as  the  music  had 
ceased,  and  she  had,  in  some  measure,  recovered  from 
her  surprise,  she  asked  the  meaning  of  such  general 
praise.  "  These  are  glorifications,"  said  the  angels. 
"  They  are  frequently  heard  in  heaven,  and  are  indica 
tions  of  the  strong  perceptions  of  the  goodness  of  the 
Lord,  which  the  angels  sometimes  feel.  We  are  made 
sensible  of  the  benevolence  and  mercy  of  God,  and,  in 
humble  thankfulness  for  all  His  mercies,  we  simulta 
neously  burst  forth  into  songs  of  adoration  and  gratitude 
Heaven  then  rings  with  the  praises  of  God." 

They  still  progressed,  and  talked  about  these  wonder 
ful  things ;  and  at  every  step  new  wonders  appeared. 
At  last  they  arrived  at  another  gate,  still  more  beautiful 
than  either  of  the  others,  and  made  of  solid  gold.  Over 
the  top  was  written,  in  letters  of  shining  gold,  "  The 
Gate  of  Love."  As  soon  as  Aucune  saw  it,  sho  felt 
a  presentiment  that  she  would  not  be  able  to  pass, 
and  involuntarily  cried,  "  Not  yet!"  "Not  yet,"  was 
echoed  from  within  the  portal.  "  Not  yet."  She  started, 
and  was  turning  away,  sadly  dejected  with  her  repeated 


104  THE    IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN. 

failures,  when  the  gate  was  opened,  and  a  company  of 
the  sweetest  beings  ever  mortal  saw,  clad  in  rich  white 
robes,  appeared,  and  invited  her  to  them.  As  she  waa 
approaching,  another  company  in  the  gate  sang  a  song 
of  condolence  ;  and  all  the  music  she  had  ever  heard  was 
afi  nothing  to  it.  The  words  were  as  follows  : — 

"  Young  immortal,  never  fear  ; 

Courage  take,  and  go  ; 
Fill  thy  soul  with  love  sincere, 

While  on  earth  below. 

"  Then,  through  this  gate  of  glory 

Thou  shalt  enter  in 
To  realms  of  joy  so  holy, 

Pure  and  free  from  sin." 

Aucune  felt  inwardly  delighted  with  this  assurance  of 
yet  seeing  the  Fountain  of  Beauty,  and  felt  that  it 
would,  indeed,  be  a  fountain  of  joy  to  her.  The  angels 
all  kissed  her,  and,  emboldened  by  their  kindness,  she 
entreated  them  to  say  what  she  yet  lacked,  to  fit  her  to 
proceed  through  their  land  to  the  Fountain. 

"Thou  must  know,  sweet  immortal,"  said  one,  who 
seemed  to  be  the  personation  of  love  itself,  "  that  ours 
is  the  land  of  love.  Here  we  do  everything  from  love, 
and  not  from  a  mere  sense  of  duty ;  for  in  motives  of 
duty  we  perceive  something  of  constraint  and  servitude. 
They,  therefore,  who  are  in  this  state  look  upon  God  as 
a  good  Master,  and  themselves  as  His  servants ;  but  we 
love  to  regard  Him  as  our  Father,  and  ourselves  as  Ilia 
children.  Thou  must  go,  then,  immortal,"  continued 
the  angel,  "  to  thy  world  again,  and  make  what  has 
hitherto  been  a  duty  a  delight  and  a  pleasure.  Thou 


THE   IMMORTAL    FOUNTAIN.  105 

roust  learn  to  hate  evil,  and  shun  it,  because  it  is  con- 
trtiry  to  God  and  the  good  of  thy  fellows  :  and  thou  must 
do  good  because  it  is  good,  and  of  God,  and  the  uncon 
strained  choice  of  thy  soul.  Thou  must  neither  let  fear 
drive  thee  from  evil,  nor  the  hope  of  reward,  either  in 
the  life  of  the  body  or  in  that  of  thy  spirit,  cause  theo 
to  do  good ;  but  thou  must  do  it  from  the  sincere  and 
pure  love  of  virtue  itself;  so  shalt  thou,  in  time,  return 
to  us,  and  pass  on  to  the  Fountain  of  Beauty." 

The  angels  walked  down  the  steps  with  her,  and  gave 
her  the  usual  kiss,  and  bid  her  be  of  good  courage. 
They  stood  affectionately  gazing  after  her,  and  waving 
their  handkerchiefs  in  the  breeze,  by  way  of  encourage 
ment,  until  they  were  closed  from  her  view.  Aucune 
returned  to  the  world,  almost  afraid  that,  after  all,  she 
would  not  be  able  to  bathe  in  the  Fountain.  "  Hope 
not  for  the  Fountain  !"  said  the  same  mysterious  still 
small  voice,  that  had,  more  than  once,  taught  her  what 
to  do  in  cases  of  trouble.  She  felt  that  it  was  a  warn 
ing  from  heaven,  but  she  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  it. 
"  Hope  not  for  the  Fountain  !"  said  she  to  herself,  with 
Bin-prise ;  and  thus  she  kept  pondering  and  turning  it 
over  for  many  days. 

In  great  distress  of  mind  she  wandered  to  the  shady 
grotto,  and  prayed  to  be  enlightened ;  and,  while  she 
prayed,  the  heavens  opened,  and  an  angel  descended 
and  stood  before  her.  u  Let  not  thy  soul  be  disturbed,' 
said  he,  "  but  rather  rejoice  that  thou  art  able  to  see  thy 
difficulty  ;  for  it  is  one  that  eludes  the  sight  of  thousands. 
Thou  must  henceforth  cease  to  hope  for  the  Fountain  as 
an  end  of  life,  and  go  to  Chacune,  and  she  will  instruct 


106 


THE   IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN. 


thee  further."  And,  as  he  thus  said,  he  suddenly  de 
parted  out  of  her  sight.  Aucune  still  felt  disturbed,  and 
immediately  sought  Chacune,  and  told  her  all  that  had 
occurred,  and  implored  her  to  tell  her  what  to  do. 
"Dear  sister,"  said  Chacune,  "you  have  followed  good 
ness,  hitherto,  merely  to  prepare  you  to  go  to  the  Foun 
tain  of  Beauty;  now  you  must  hereafter  desire  the 
Fountain  for  the  purpose  of  leading  you  to  goodness. 
What  you  have,  up  to  this  time,  made  the  end,  you  must 
now  regard  as  the  means,  and  the  means  must  hereafter 
be  the  end.  Goodness  and  virtue  should  be  the  end  of 
every  endeavour.  Truth  may  be  the  principal  end  up 
to  a  certain  period  of  regeneration,  but  afterwards  it 
must  become  merely  the  means  to  a  higher  and  holier 
one,  which  is  goodness.  Learn,  then,  my  dear  sister,  to 
understand  well  the  true  ends  of  human  life,  and,  with 
out  hoping  for,  you  shall  have  blessings.  Endeavour  to 
make  this  change  in  your  mind,  and  the  barrier  will 
become  an  assistance  to  the  higher  object  you  shall  have 
in  view." 

The  sisters  walked,  in  meditative  mood,  into  their 
father's  beautiful  garden.  |Qne  was  wrapped  in  pro 
found  thought  concerning  the  interior  wisdom  that  the 
angel  and  her  sister  had  taught  her;  the  other  wa8 
hoping  for  the  ultimate  success  of  her  sister,  and  medi 
tating  on  the  means  she  should  adopt  to  assist  her.  In 
a  short  tiiLe  they  were  aroused  from  their  thoughts  by 
the  approach  of  their  father,  who  informed  them  that 
the  Wise  Man  of  the  Hill  had  come,  and  wished  to  see 
them.  "  Run  and  welcome  him,"  said  Aucune,  "and  I 
will  go  and  gather  a  little  fruit,  for  he  will  be  fatigued 


THE    IMMORTAL    FOUNTAIN.  107 

with  the  journey."  And  away  she  bounded  to  the 
orchard,  and  plucked  the  finest  fruit  she  could  find, 
while  Chacune  and  her  father  went  to  entertain  their 
visitor. 

As  soon  as  Aucune  entered,  the  old  gentleman  in 
formed  them  of  a  dreadful  occurrence  that  had  taken 
place.  lie  said,  "  As  I  was  riding,  with  my  servants, 
not  far  from  the  district  where  we  found  you  in  the 
forest,  Aucune,  we  met  a  boy,  shivering  with  cold,  and 
his  face  covered  with  blood.  On  inquiry,  we  found  that 
his  father,  and  mother,  and  two  sisters,  and  himself  had 
mistaken  their  way ;  and,  while  in  the  act  of  retracing 
their  steps,  they  were  met  by  a  woman,  probably  the 
same  that  led  you  astray,  who  told  them  to  follow  her, 
and  she  would  lead  them  to  a  place  of  safety.  Little 
thinking  whom  they  were  following,  they  cheerfully 
obeyed,  and  were  led  on  from  one  place  to  another  until 
night  set  in,  when  a  dreadful  storm  arose ;  and,  while  in 
the  midst  of  it,  a  faint  light  appeared,  which  they  fol 
lowed,  and  found  it  led  to  a  cave,  from  which  proceeded 
the  noise  of  revelry  and  boisterous  joy.  The  man  re 
fused,  at  first,  to  enter ;  but  the  storm  was  raging  with 
awful  fury,  the  lightning  flashed  among  the  trees,  and 
the  thunder  rolled,  and  the  wind  roared,  and  the  rain  fell 
in  torrents ;  and,  looking  round  upon  his  shivering  and 
fatigued  family,  he  at  last  consented.  It  so  happened 
that  the  boy  had  tarried  a  little  behind,  from  weariness ; 
and,  before  he  could  arrive,  a  massive  gate  was  drawn 
across  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  and  shut  him  out,  and  his 
parents  and  sisters  in.  As  soon  as  the  gate  was  drawn, 
an  infernal  shout  of  delight  proceeded  from  thousands 


108  THE   IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN. 

of  voices,  and  the  noise  of  revelry  increased.  The  youth 
was  terrified,  and  fled  from  the  place,  not  knowing 
whither,  and  wandered  about  in  the  forest,  and  more 
than  once  was  struck  with  falling  trees,  that  caused  the 
blood  to  flow  down  his  innocent  face,  and  filled  his  soul 
with  terror. 

"  As  soon  as  we  found  him,  and  heard  his  story,  we 
judged  that  it  would  be  the  cave  of  the  furies  into  which 
they  had  been  allured  ;  arid  we  hastened  thither,  per- 
adventure  we  might  rescue  them.  On  our  arrival,  we 
heard  moans  proceeding  from  within,  which  was  an  indi 
cation  that  some  cne  was  still  living.  We  sounded  our 
trumpet  of  Truth,  that  they  might"  know  that  help  was 
at  hand,  and,  setting  ourselves  vigorously  to  work,  we 
very  soon  found  out  a  crevice  in  the  rock,  through  which 
we  all  entered  as  quickly  as  possible.  But  it  was  not 
until  the  furies  had  taken  alarm.  Before  we  had  all  got 
fairly  into  the  cave,  we  were  obliged  to  draw  our  swords 
and  fight  the  infernal  hosts.  The  contest  was  severe  at 
first,  but  not  long ;  for,  when  manfully  assailed,  the  furies 
are  complete  cowards  ;  and  we  drove  them  before  us,  and 
finally  they  descended  through  the  earth,  and  fled  by  a 
subterraneous  passage,  and  left  us  in  entire  possession 
of  the  cave.  We  were  directed  to  the  man  and  his 
family  by  their  moans ;  and,  to  our  joy,  we  found  they 
were  still  living,  but  much  more  than  half  dead.  We 
brol%:e  down  the  gate,  and  endeavoured  to  destroy  the 
cave,  and  brought  the  unfortunate  creatures  to  the  light, 
and  examined  their  wounds,  and  poured  in  oil  and  wine, 
and  set  them  on  our  horses ;  and  now,  I  am  happy  to 
Bay,  they  are  at  my  house,  doing  well." 


THE    IMMORTAL    FOUNTAIN.  109 

The  two  sisters  and  their  father  were  well  pleased  with 
the  success  of  the  Wise  Man,  and  desired  to  return  with 
him,  that  they  might  see  the  family. 

On  their  arrival,  Aucune  was  filled  with  anxiety  to 
render  them  some  assistance ;  for  she  remembered  the 
night  of  horror  she  had  passed  under  similar  circum 
stances.  She  stayed  a  whole  week,  and  never  left  them, 
night  or  day.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  they  were  so 
far  recovered  as  to  be  able  to  go  on  their  way  towards 
the  city  of  Contentment,  where  they  soon  arrived,  thank 
ful  to  God  for  having  raised  up  so  great  a  deliverance 
from  so  great  a  danger  into  which  they  had  fallen. 

Well  prepared  for  heaven  by  these  acts  of  kindness, 
she  was  admitted  into  the  association  of  angels ;  and,  as 
she  approached  the  magnificent  Gate  of  Gold,  a  com 
pany  of  glorious  beings  came  out  and  met  her,  and  fell 
upon  her  neck,  and  embraced  her,  and  kissed  her.  Their 
countenances  bespoke  incessant  love,  and  they  were  evi 
dently  filled  with  extreme  joy,  which  strongly  reminded 
me  of  the  joy  which  the  Lord  declares  there  is  in  heaven 
over  every  repentant  sinner.  The  robes  of  the  angels 
were  so  beautiful  as  almost  to  surpass  even  a  faint 
description.  They  were  white  as  the  purest  light,  and 
shone  as  if  some  brilliant  flame  burned  within ;  and  all 
were  bound  together  by  a  girdle  of  rich  purple  velvet. 
So  perfectly  did  they  fit  their  bodies,  that  there  seemed 
not  a  single  fold  out  of  its  place.  Around  their  heads 
were  wreaths  of  fragrant,  delicate  flowers,  which  never 
lost  their  odours,  and  here  and  there  a  ruby  sent  forth 
its  beautiful  reflected  light ;  and  behind  each  ear  every 
one  had  an  olive  leaf.  As  Aucune  entered,  every  angel 


'110  THE    IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN, 

manifested  the  utmost  delight,  and  welcomed  her  as  a 
Bister ;  and  a  choir  of  voices  from  within  raised  their 
harmonious  notes,  and  sung, 

"  Enter,  enter,  young  immortal, 
Through  celestials'  golden  portal ; 
Welcome  to  our  land  of  love, 
Welcome  to  the  realms  above  ! 

"  Sweetly  shall  the  Fountain  flow, 
On  thee  rich  blessings  to  bestow ; 
Beauty,  goodness,  joy,  and  peace, 
Shall  within  thy  soul  increase  ! 

"  Sister  angel,  pass  on,  pass  on !" 

She  was  immediately  clad  with  similar  rohes ;  and  one 
tall,  majestic,  glorious  being,  who  seemed  to  he  the  prince 
of  the  company,  came  to  her,  and  placed  behind  her  ear 
the  olive  leaf,  and  said,  "  This  is  the  badge  of  our  hea 
ven,  and  by  it  we  acknowledge  you  as  our  sister.  Come, 
now,  to  the  Immortal  Fountain,  for  the  barriers  are  all 
passed ;  peace  and  tranquillity  shall  henceforth  be  your 
companions,  joy  and  gladness  shall  for  ever  attend  you, 
and  we  will  be  your  protecting  friends."  They  all 
departed ;  and  it  is  impossible  to  describe  the  beauty  of 
the  flowers,  and  the  sweetnesss  of  their  odours,  and  the 
glory  of  the  light,  and  the  purity  of  the  atmosphere, 
and  the  happiness  of  that  heaven ;  for,  to  mortals,  they 
are  ineffable  !  There  was  one  object,  however,  the  most 
wonderful  and  glorious  of  any  she  had  yet  seen.  It  wag 
God,  clothed,  as  it  were,  with  the  sun,  and  from  whom 
proceeded  light  which  illuminated  all  heaven  with  its 


THE   IMMORTAL   FOUNTAIN.  Ill 

glory ;  a  id,  on  the  appearance  of  his  Divine  Majesty, 
all  angels  prostrated  themselves  in  humble  adoration. 

As  they  travelled,  in  a  little  time  the  murmuring  of 
the  waters  was  heard,  and  a  thrill  of  delight  passed 
through  the  soul  of  Aucune.  She  ascended  the  beauti 
ful  Mount  of  Innocence,  on  which  it  stood,  and  there 
before  her  lay  the  waters,  in  the  form  of  a  lake,  from 
the  centre  of  which  they  rose  high  up  into  the  air,  and 
fell  gently  upon  the  surface.  Angels  were  bathing  their 
beautiful  forms ;  and  Aucune  ran  up  and  looked  in,  and 
saw  the  face  of  one  beaming  with  joy  and  beauty,  which 
seemed  to  be  looking  at  her  from  within  the  water. 

And,  as  she  continued  to  admire  this  lovely  counte 
nance,  her  sister  Chacune  came  joyfully  up  and  kissed 
her,  and,  in  tones  of  exultation  and  pleasure,  said,  "  0, 
my  beloved  Aucune  !  long,  long  have  I  wished  to  behold 
you  standing  upon  the  brink  of  these  blessed  waters,  so 
that  I  could  show  you  how  sweet  and  beautiful  you  are  ! 
Look  there,"  said  she,  pointing  to  the  face  in  the  water; 
"  look  there,  and  behold  the  beauty  of  your  own  coun 
tenance  !"  Aucune  looked,  and  was  astonished  to  find 
that  it  was  her  own  face,  the  countenance  of  her  own 
purified  soul,  so  infinitely  more  beautiful  than  that  of 
her  body,  that  she  did  not  recognise  it.  "  But  I  have 
not  bathed  yet !"  said  she,  with  surprise.  "  True,  you 
have  not  yet  bathed  in  this  type  of  the  Holy  Water," 
said  Chacune,  "  but  the  true  water  of  purifying,  living 
truth,  from  the  River  of  Life,  has  been  flowing  in  your 
soul  since  the  time  you  first  set  out  to  reach  the  Fountain. 
Remember  how  your  heart  was  once  filled  with  the  spi 
ritual  filth  of  sin,  and  then  think  of  the  holv  commands 


112  THE   BEAUTIFUL. 

and  wise  instruction  that  were  given  you  by  angels  to 
make  you  pure  and  fit  you  for  heaven.  These  were  the 
waters  of  the  true  Fountain  of  Beauty  !"  "  0,  Chacune, 
Chacune!"  said  Aucune ;  "I  understand  it  all!"  and 
falling  upon  her  neck,  the  two  sisters  embraced  each 
other  with  the  ardency  of  angelic  love,  and  then  fell 
upon  their  knees,  and,  with  eyes  and  hands  uplifted, 
they  uttered  in  unison  a  holy  and  solemn  prayer,  which 
I  heard  as  if  ascending  to  the  throne  of  the  Majesty  on 
high,  blessing  and  praising  God  for  all  His  mercies,  and 
His  wonderful  works  to  the  children  of  men.  After 
this,  I  awoke. 


THE    BEAUTIFUL. 

WALK  with  the  Beautiful,  and  with  the  Grand; 

Let  nothing  on  the  earth  thy  feet  deter ; 
Sorrow  may  lead  thee  weeping  by  the  hand, 

But  give  not  all  thy  bosom  thoughts  to  her: 
Walk  with  the  Beautiful. 

I  hear  thee  say,  "  The  Beautiful !  what  is  it  ?" 
O,  thou  art  darkly  ignorant !     Be  sure 

'Tis  no  long  weary  road  its  form  to  visit, 

For  thou  canst  make  it  smile  beside  thy  door: 
Then  love  the  Beautiful. 

Ay,  love  it ;  'tis  a  sister  that  will  bless, 

And  teach  thee  patience  when  the  heart  is  lonely; 
The  angels  love  it,  for  they  wear  its  dress, 

And  thou  art  made  a  little  lower  only ; 

Then  love  the  Beautiful. 


NATURE'S  HKAUTIES. 


THE   BEAUTIFUL.  113 

Sigh  for  it ! — clasp  it  when  'tis  in  thy  way  1 

Be  its  idolater,  as  of  a  maiden ! 
Thy  parents  bent  to  it,  and  more  than  they  ; 

j$e  thou  its  worshipper.     Another  Eden 

Comes  with  the  Beautiful. 

Some  boast  its  presence  in  a  Grecian  face ; 

Some  on  a  favourite  warbler  of  the  skies ; 
But  be  not  fooled— where'er  thine  eye  might  trace, 

Seeking  the  Beautiful,  it  will  arise : 

Then  seek  it  everywhere. 

Thy  bosom  is  its  mint,  the  workmen  are 

Thy  thoughts,  and  they  must  coin  for  thee  believing- 

The  Beautiful  exists  in  every  star, 

Thou  makest  it  so ;  and  art  thyself  deceiving 
If  otherwise  thy  faith. 

Thou  seest  Beauty  in  the  violet's  cup— 

I'll  teach  thee  miracles  !     Walk  on  this  heath, 

And  say  to  the  neglected  flower,  "  Look  up, 
And  be  thou  Beautiful!"     If  thou  hast  faith 
It  will  obey  thy  word. 

One  thing  I  warn  thee:  bow  no  knee  to  gold  ; 

Less  innocent  it  makes  the  guileless  tongue, 
It  turns  the  feelings  prematurely  old; 

And  they  who  keep  their  best  affections  young, 
Best  love  the  Beautiful 


THE  GENII  OF  THE  GOID  MINES. 

'  Can  gold  calm  passion,  or  make  reason  shine? 
Can  we  dig  peace  or  wisdom  from  the  mine  ? 
Wisdom  to  gold  prefer ;  for  'tis  much  less 
To  make  our  fortune  than  our  happiness." — YOUNG. 

DAVID  WINTERS  sat  by  the  fireside  one  cold  bluster 
ing  night.  His  arm-chair  was  drawn  up  within  a  few 
feet  of  the  crackling  wood  fire,  and  he  felt  in  a  very 
comfortable,  drowsy — contemplative  mood.  What  cared 
he  if  the  wind  did  shake  the  casement  and  rattle  the 
doors,  as  though  it  would  break  through  into  his  snug 
parlour  ?  He  only  gazed  complacently  around  upon  the 
comfortable  arrangements  of  his  fireside,  and  relapsed 
into  a  fit  of  musing.  Mr.  Winters  was  not  what  one 
might  call  rich  in  this  world's  goods.  He  had  his  com 
fortable  house,  a  few  acres  of  good  tillable  land,  good 
barn,  well  filled  with  live  stock,  a  smart  sprinkling  of 
hens,  ducks,  and  geese;  and  he  had  another  thing  which 
he  prized  as  of  far  greater  value  than  all  the  rest,  a  good 
wife  and  two  children — a  boy  and  a  girl.  My  reader 
will  perhaps  say,  learning  this,  "  Is  he  not  contented 
with  his  lot?  can  he  wish  for  any  greater  riches  ?" 

I  am  very  sorry  to  say,  dear  reader,  that  he  was  not. 
lie  was  blessed  with  health  in  his  family,  a  lovinfe  spouse, 
and  an  easy,  independent  life,  yet  he  was  not  satisfied. 
Some  of  his  neighbours  had  been  to  the  land  of  gold, 
and  returned  with  well-filled  purses.  He  had  taken  the 
infection,  and  wanted  to  visit  that  land  himself.  Visions 


THE   GENII   OF   THE   GOLD    MINES.  115 

of  "  mountains  of  gold,"  gold  dust,  and  golden  ingots, 
filled  his  brain. 

Mary,  his  wife,  sat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  hearth, 
turning  her  spinning-wheel  and  converting  the  shining 
flax  into  tough  thread,  which  in  turn  was  to  be  converted 
into  garments  for  David  Winters  Junior,  who  was  at 
that  time  enjoying  himself  in  a  delicious  sleep  beside  hia 
mother. 

"  Mary,"  said  Mr.  Winters,  suddenly  breaking  the 
sUence,  and  striking  his  open  hand  upon  his  knee,  as  if 
lie  had  an  idea  in  his  head — a  singular  idea — "  Mary,  do 
you  know  what  I  was  just  thinking  of?" 

"La,  me,  David,  no!  How  should  I  know,  unless 
you  wao  thinking  how  much  more  vood  it  would  take  to 
melt  the  oM— " 

"  Pshaw,  Mary  !  nonsense,"  broke  in  David,  not  wait 
ing  for  her  conclusion — "  I  was  just  thinking  how  much 
money,  how  much  gold  would  satisfy  me." 

"  Gracious  !  David,  what  a  man  you  are  !  Haven't 
you  got  everything  comfortable  around  you ;  everything 
nice  and  convenient  i  and  can't  you  be  satisfied  ?  Well, 
how  much  did  you  think  would  make  you  contented  ?" 

"  I  thought,  Mary,  that  if  I  had  all  I  could  place  in 
the  half  bushel  measure,  I  would  be  nearly  satisfied  ; 
and,  that  if  I  had  all  I  couH  put  in  this  room,  I  should 
be  perfectly  satisfied !" 

"Dear  me  !  what  an  avaricious  man  you  arc,  David  ! 
You'll  never  be  contented,  I'm  af-aid,  if  nothing  less 
will  satisfy  your  craving  for  wealth.  I  heard  you  tc  1 
Mr.  WTilson  to-day,  that  you  had  macb  up  your  mfo.l  v> 
go  to  California.  You  was  not  in  sober  oairioi't,  was  jv>% 


11(5  THE    GENII    OP   THE   GOLD    MINES. 

husband?    Oh!    I  know  you  wasn't!    How  could  you 
leave  little  David,  Jeannette,  and  me  ?" 

A  tear  trembled  in  the  good  woman's  eye,  and  the 
hand  that  guided  the  flaxen  thread  shook  nervously. 
She  tangled  the  yarn  around  the  spindle — her  handa 
then  fell  to  her  side,  and  her  head  sank  upon  her 
bosom. 

"  Oh  !  don't  cry,  Mary,"  said  David,  almost  repenting 
his  ambition.  "  When  I  come  back  with  a  heap  of  money, 
you  will  be  as  ^lad  to  help  dispose  of  it  as  anybody. 
Don't  cry,  Mary!" 

An  hour  passed,  and  the  old  clock  recorded  it  in  its 
musical  chimes.  Mrs.  Winters  had  resumed  her  spinning, 
and  David  sat  in  his  chair  almost  asleep.  The  wheel 
buzzed  merrily,  the  fire  crackled  cheerily,  the  old  cat 
upon  the  hearth  stretched  herself  lazily,  and  David's 
eyelids  almost  closed  together. 

As  he  sat  there  gazing  into  the  bright  fire — upon  the 
glowing  coals — he  saw  a  slight  movement  among  them, 
and  a  little  fellow,  all  covered  with  dust  and  ashes,  leaped 
out  on  to  the  hearth  and  shook  himself.  When  David's 
eye  first  discovered  him  he  was  not  certainly  bigger  than 
a  man's  thumb,  and  might  have  been  mistaken  for  a  coal 
of  fire,  he  was  so  red  in  the  face.  Gradually,  he  seemed 
to  expand  in  form  and  limb,  until  his  figure  could  hardly 
stand  beneath  the  ceiling  of  the  room.  As  the  figure 
increased  in  size,  his  face  grew  redder  and  redder,  until 
it  grew  warm  around  him,  and  David  felt  uncomfort 
ably  warm.  lie  did  not  feel  at  all  alarmed  in  the  pre 
sence  of  the  giant  creature,  but  involuntarily  inquired 
who  he  was. 


THE   GENII   OF   THE   GOLD    MINES.  117 

"  /  am  the  Genii  of  the  Gold  Mines"  said  he,  looking 
down  upon  David  with  his  great  yellow  eyes.  "  I  am 
the  spirit  of  the  mines,  and  have  it  in  my  power  to 
make  you  rich.  I  can  show  you  where  the  main  trea- 
eure  lies,  and  teach  you  how  to  gain  immense  quantities 
of  gold." 

"  And  what  do  you  require  of  men  in  return  for  thio 
information  ?"  said  Mr.  Winters. 

"  I  only  require  that  they  should  give  me  full  sway 
over  their  bodies  and  souls — give  themselves  entirely  to 
my  service,  the  remainder  of  their  lives.  When  I  call 
they  must  answer ;  when  I  command  they  must  obey ; 
and  when  death  summons  them  hence,  their  souls  are 
delivered  up  to  my  guardianship." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  Truly,  some  men  hazard  as  much,  and 
in  the  end  get  nothing.  Show  me  the  treasure,  sir,  and 
I'll  comply  with  your  stipulations.  Give  me  'gold 
galore,'  and  I'll  serve  you  through  life,  and  make  over 
to  you  a  quit  claim  deed  of  my  spirit  after  death  !' 

A  smile  curled  the  red  Genii's  lip,  and  he  immediately 
disappeared  in  the  coals,  from  whence  he  came.  David 
sat  by  the  fire  some  minutes,  impatiently  awaiting  the 
return  of  the  Genii.  He  had  almost  persuaded  himself 
that  it  was  all  a  dream,  and  that  the  Genii  would  never 
return,  when  a  beautiful  girl  appeared  before  him,  as  if 
by  magic,  with  golden  hair  and  the  deepest  blue  eyes, 
the  pearliest  teeth  and  the  most  bewitching  little  smilo 
that  he  ever  saw.  She  opened  her  ruby  lips,  and  in 
a  mellow  flute-like  voice,  that  thrilled  his  eery  heart, 
she  said, 

''  Mortal,  you  see  before  you  a  servant  of  the  Genii 


118  THE   GENII    OF   THE   GOLD    MINES. 

of  the  Mines.    I  am  called  Flora.    I  am  sent  to  conduct 
you  to  the  presence  of  my  master  !" 

"Lead  on,"  said  David,  bewildered  with  her  beauty, 
44  lead  on,  and  I  will  follow." 

She  placed  her  dark  blue  eyes  steadily  upon  his  for  a 
moment,  glided  toward  him,  and  placing  one  taper  finger 
upon  his  forehead,  she  retreated  toward  the  fire-place. 
David  did  not  leave  his  chair,  but  it  seemed  to  glide 
along,  as  if  upon  ice,  in  the  same  direction.  Thus,  as 
if  in  a  mesmeric  sleep,  he  entered  the  glowing  grate. 
A  moment  and  all  was  dark.  Still  he  felt  the  impress 
of  the  finger  upon  his  forehead,  and  that  he  was  passing 
through  the  atmosphere  at  a  rapid  rate.  Soon  there 
appeared  in  the  distance  a  light  as  of  a  glimmering  star. 
It  grew  rapidly  larger  and  larger,  and  brighter  and 
brighter,  until  the  dazzling  light  blinded  his  eyes.  He 
stood  in  the  presence  of  the  Genii  when  he  again  looked 
around  him,  and  his  guide  had  disappeared.  He  stood 
in  an  immense  cavern,  whose  sides,  roof,  and  floor  were 
ef  solid,  massive  golden  rock. 

"  Frail  mortal,  thou  standest  in  the  main  treasure- 
chamber,  from  whence  cometh  all  the  gold  of  earth," 
said  the  Genii.  "  Look  around,  and  feast  thy  greedy  eyes' 
upon  the  millions  of  millions  that  are  here  deposited. 
You  can  never  but  once  penetrate  to  it.  Sign  these 
writings,  and  then  choose  thy  manner  of  taking  a  shai 
of  gold  from  these  walls." 

David  seized  the  pen  and  subscribed  his  name  to  the 
Deed. — Tho  letters  traced  were  of  a  dark  red  colour. 

"  Thorp,  that  will  do,"  chuckled  the  Genii;  "you 
aro  mir/,  '  rine,  MINE!  heart,  soul,  and  body!  ha!  ha! 


THE   GENII   OF   THE   GOLD    MINES.  119 

ha !"  and  he  almost  shrieked  a  laugh.  The  echo  wc,s 
caught  up  and  resounded  from  each  corner  and  point  of 
the  immense  cavern.  It  was  terrific — awful.  The  per 
spiration  started  from  every  pore,  arid  David  most 
heartily  wished  himself  out  of  the  place. 

"How  much  gold  will  satisfy  you?"  said  the  Genii, 
fixing  his  yellow  eyes  upon  his,  as  though  he  would  read 
his  innermost  thought. 

"  Would  you  be  satisfied  with  as  much  as  you  could 
raise  from  the  floor?" 

Now  be  it  known,  David  was  not  a  man  who  might 
be  called  small  or  weakly.  He  once  prided  himself  very 
much  upon  his  bodily  strength,  and  the  enormous  weights 
he  could  lift.  So  the  proposition  of  the  Genii  was  in 
his  favour. 

"Yes,"  answered  he.  "Give  me  all  I  can  lift,  and 
I  will  be  satisfied." 

"  Let  it  be  so.     You  shall  have  your  wish." 

The  Genii  seized  an  iron  instrument,  and  commenced 
digging  the  gold  from  the  wall.  His  blows  fell  thick 
and  fast.  Presently  a  large  lump  of  the  precious  metal 
was  detached.  He  threw  aside  the  instrument,  and  from 
a  chest  near  by  took  a  stout  linen  bag,  apparently  capable 
of  holding  two  bushels  of  grain. 

"Now,"  said  he  to  David,  who  stood  amazed,  "I  will 
make  you  acquainted  with  my  further  conditions."  P*vid 
did  not  answer,  for  he  was  glad  to  do  anything  to  get 
himself  out  of  the  present  predicament. 

"You  can  take  this  bag,"  resumed  the  Genii,  "and 
place  in  it  as  much  of  the  metal  as,  in  your  best  judg 
ment,  you  think  you  can  raise.  If  you  over-estimate 


120  1HE    GENII    OF   THE    GOLD    MINES 

your  strength,  and  get  more  gold  than  you  can  lift,  you 
shall  have  none,  but  shall  be  sent  back  to  your  family 
worse  than  when  you  left  them.  If  you  do  lift  it,  it  shall 
bo  yours.  My  servants  shall  escort  you  home,  and  a 
conveyance  shall  be  furnished  for  your  treasure." 

David  took  the  sack,  and  began  filling  it  with  the 
largest  and  brightest  pieces.  At  first  he  thought  he 
would  limit  his  desires,  and  be  sure  not  to  put  in  more 
than  he  could  raise.  As  he  handled  the  precious  lumps 
lie  became  more  and  more  excited,  until  he  had  no  com 
mand  over  himself.  The  bag  was  about  half  filled,  and 
he  desisted  a  moment.  The  idea  of  having  so  much  gold 
stimulated  him  to  prepare  for  immense  exertion,  in  order 
to  raise  it.  "  One  more  lump,"  thought  he,  and  added 
it  to  the  pile. 

"  Oh  !  one  more  will  not  make  it  much  heavier." 

Another  lump  was  added — and  yet  another.  The  bag 
was  placed  in  a  convenient  position,  and  he  paused  over 
it  to  take  breath  before  he  tried  the  lift.  He  did  not  have 
the  slightest  doubt  but  he  could  raise  it,  so  excited  had 
he  become.  He  stooped,  grasped  the  mouth  of  the  sack 
in  both  his  brawny  hands,  and  raising  himself  slowly, 
steadily,  but  with  all  his  strength,  he  essayed  the  task. 
He  strained,  he  tugged  with  all  his  might ;  he  exerted 
every  muscle ;  the  blood  rushed  to  his  brain — he  saw 
more  stars  than  revolve  in  the  firmament ;  but  it  was  all 
in  vain.  The  obstinate  load  would  not  budge  a  hair's 
breadth. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  laughed  the  demon,  and  his  face 
glowed  with  a  brighter  glow.  "You  did  not  raise  it! 
But  try  once  more,  and  then  if  you  do  not  raise  it — ha  1 


THE    GENII   OF    THE   GOLD    MINES.  121 

La!"  Again  the  echo  was  caught  up  as  if  by  a  myriad 
of  fiends,  and  the  cavern  was  filled  with  the  laugh. 

Once  more  David  Winters  grasped  the  sack.  This 
time,  with  the  determination  to  raise  it  or  die  in  the 
attempt.  When  he  was  lifting  with  the  utmost  of  his 
strength,  the  solid  linen  of  the  sack  parted  in  twain,  and 
David,  losing  his  balance,  fell  heavily  upon  the  floor. 
The  Genii  raised  another — "  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !"  and  again 
it  echoed  through  the  cave. 

"Lost!  lost!  lost!"  cried  David,  and — awoke. 

"Bless  my  heart,  David  !  what  is  the  matter  ?  Here 
you've  been  tugging  and  pulling  at  the  arm  of  your  chair, 
and  now  you've  pulled  it  clean  off,  and  fallen  on  the 
floor.  Oh  !  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

David  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked  around. 

IT  WAS  ALL  A  DREAM  ! 

He  related  his  dream  to  Mary  that  night,  but  said  not 
a  word  about  going  to  California,  as  in  fact  he  never 
did  afterwards.  Several  days  passed  before  he  recovered 
from  the  severe  contusion  on  his  head  from  the  fall. 

The  moral  of  this  simple  sketch  is  obvious.  When  a 
man  is  comfortably  located,  having  a  home  and  a  family, 
and  with  a  fair  income,  he  is  not  justified  in  leaving  all, 
to  seek  mere  gold  afar  off.  Like  the  hero  of  this  dream, 
in  doing  so,  he  may  not  gain  anything  there,  but  lose 
everything  he  has  at  home. 


ADA'S  LIFE  ROMANCE. 

"  YES  !  yes  !  as  beautiful  as  I  could  desire  it  1  Every 
j»recious  object  takes  a  hue  from  the  rose  glow  of  my 
life !"  and  very  gently  was  the  foot-fall  of  Ada  Ward 
pressed  into  the  velvet  carpets  of  her  bridal  home ;  very 
soft  were  the  glances  that  rested  upon  the  rich  and 
graceful  furniture,  as  though  it  were  capable  of  making 
a  part  in  her  strange  and  wonderful  happiness  ! — for  the 
mysteries  wrought  in  the  quiet  soul  by  love,  are  ever 
new,  and  more  than  strange  and  wonderful  to  the  pos 
sessor  of  the  enchanted  life.  And  so  the  light  figure  of 
Mrs.  Graham  Ward,  for  the  twentieth  time,  had  been 
flitting  from  room  to  room,  beginning  at  the  top  of  the 
great  house ;  her  heart  pronounced  a  benediction  on 
everything,  and  when  she  stood  within  her  magnificent 
parlours,  her  lips  spoke  the  thoughts  sleeping  within. 

"  Yes  !"  she  murmured,  smilingly,  "  I  believe  if  I  did 
not  look  every  day  at  all  these  things,  and  almost  touch 
them,  I  should  think  myself  in  some  delirious,  blissful 
dream.  But  I  am  awake,  and  Graham  is  my  husband, 
and  this  beautiful  home  is  as  fresh  to  me  as  the  love- 
lighted  world  I  have  come  to  dwell  in.  Ah !  many 
dreams  I  have  had,  but  no  wandering  in  delicious 
dream-land  ever  equalled  this :  dim  prophecies  they 
were  that  haunted  me — a  faint  idea  I  had  of  the  love 
mighty  and  eternal,  that  was  to  illuminate  my  soul— 
and  1  must  be  to  Graham  all  that  he  is  to  me — sun- 


ADA'S  LIFE  ROMANCE.  123 

shine !  life !  breath !  Ah !  I  dare  not  tell  him  all  my 
thoughts;  he  is  so  much  older  than  I ;  and  yet  for  all 
the  world,  I  would  not  have  him  a  day  younger,  for  1 
could  not  feel  that  repose,  that  blessed  assurance  in 
looking  up  to  him. 

"And  this  is  my  boudoir !"  she  continued,  entering  a 
charming  little  room  where  the  softened  light  fell  through 
embroidered  curtains,  and  lighted  up  with  more  brilliant 
touches  the  flowers  her  own  hand  had  placed  on  the 
broad  window-sill — then  the  same  magic  light  struck 
out  a  richer  crimson  on  her  little  favourite  rocking- 
chair,  and  sought  its  rest  upon  warm  crimson  roses  in 
the  carpet.  A  dainty  work-basket  stood  upon  a  zephyr 
table  filled  with  pretty  pretences  to  industry,  and  two 
or  three  delicate  notes  of  congratulation  and  l^ve  from 
"  the  girls;"  intimate  friends  to  whom  her  heart  clung, 
and  for  whom  she  wished  a  happiness  equal  to  her  own. 

Ada  took  her  seat,  and  still  looked  around  her ;  she 
did  not  care  to  sew,  she  was  too  happy  to  need  the 
ministry  of  the  choice  authors  in  the  book-case  before 
her — but  a  new  thought  struck  her — she  would  talk 
with  her  own  soul,  she  would  begin  a  journal,  and  keep 
imperishable  the  burning  thoughts  that  rose,  wave  upon 
wave,  within  her ;  this  unparalleled  romance  that  came 
with  such  a  glory  to  her  young,  girlish  spirit,  should  be 
impressed  upon  paper,  where  in  future  years  she  could 
go  to  it,  and  live  it  over  again,  and  know  that  it  really 
happened.  And  so  she  drew  pens  and  paper  from  the 
secretary,  and  in  the  afternoon  shadows  and  the  golden 
lights  she  wrote,  and  wrote,  and  poured  forth  the  elo 
quence  that  we) led  up  from  her  heart.  While  her  pen 


124  ADA'S  LIFE  ROMANCE. 

was  busy,  and  her  cheek  glowing,  a  timid  hand  rapped 
at  her  door. 

U0h,  Betsy!"  she  exclaimed,  a  little  impatiently, 
"  what  have  you  come  here  for  ?" 

"But,  mistress,  dear!"  said  the  girl,  deprecatingly, 
"  if  I  only  could  get  you  to  write  me  a  little  word  to 
my  brother,  I  should  be  so  thankful." 

"  I  will ;  but  not  now,  Betsy.     I  am  busy  now !" 
"  Oh,  but  Miss  Ward,  I  want  to  send  it  for  him." 
"  Well,  Betsy,  havn't  I  said  that  I  am  busy  now  ?" 
And  Ada  closed  the  door,  but  her  heart  smote  her  for 
a  moment  ere  she  went  on  weaving  together  her  life 
romance.      Poor  Ada  !   she  was  too  happy  to  lend  a 
listening  ear  to  others'  hopes  and  wishes.    Graham  came 
home  and  entered  the  boudoir,  where  his  wife,  lovelier 
than  ever,  met  him  with  outstretched  hands,  and  eyes 
that  half  sought  to  hide  their  love-shining  ;  he  pressed 
the  sweet  mouth  uplifted  for  his  evening  kiss,  and  passed 
his  arm  around  her  waist. 

"  Is  tea  ready,  my  dear  ?"  he  asked. 
"  I  will  see  !     Must  you  go  out  to-night,  Graham  ?" 
"  Yes  !   a  man  of  business  must  be  at  his  post,  my 
child  !"  and  he  pushed  back  the  curls  from  her  brow, 
and  kissed  it. 

Ada  left  the  room,  and  her  husband  stood  musing 
alone.  He  was  a  man  of  thirty-five,  with  a  handsome, 
haughty  face,  where  a  something  reckless  and  impera 
tive,  not  to  say  selfish,  could  be  traced. 

"  A  very  pretty  little  creature  she  is,  and  she  loves  me 
BO  devotedly  !  A  very  pleasant  thing  it  is  to  have  such 
a  pretty  little  wife  to  welcome  me,  and  such  a  handsome 


ADA'S  LIFE  ROMANCE.  125 

fortune  with  her !"  and  the  glances  Graham  cast  around 
were  very  different  from  Ada's.  "  I  intend  to  make  the 
little  thing  happy;  poor  child,  how  happy  she  is!  but 
then  it  must  be  done  in  a  reasonable  way.  I  can't  think 
of  giving  up  my  evenings  to  be  spent  here  alone.  I'll 
do  it  sometimes,  though." 

Here  Ada  appeared,  and  laying  her  hand  on  her  hus 
band's  arm,  went  with  him  to  tea. 

When  he  had  gone,  she  sought  her  favourite  room 
again,  and  from  the  window  watched  the  twilight  sha 
dows. 

A  familiar  carriage  stopped  at  the  door,  and  her  mo 
ther's  face  looked  from  it,  and  smiled  a  mother's  love. 
Ada  hastened  to  the  front  door,  and  received  the  beloved 
visiter  with  kisses  and  embraces. 

"Come  into  my  sanctum,  mother;  this  is  such  a  dear, 
precious  room,  the  very  quintessence  of  my  Eden  home !" 
and  her  sweet,  happy  laugh,  went  like  music  to  the  fond 
mother's  heart. 

"Let  me  take  off  your  bonnet,  mother  darling,  nnd 
here,  sit  in  my  own  little  chair,  and  let  me  sit  on  this 
cushion — isn't  it  pretty?  and  lay  my  head  on  your 
lap,  and  tell  you,  oh  !  so  much !  I  never  can  tell  you 
how  happy  I  am.  Do  you  know,  mother," — and  she 
raised  her  head  and  looked  into  the  beautiful,  soft  eyes 
above  her, — "  do  you  know,  mother,  sometimes  I  think 
I  shall  not,  cannot  live  very  long,  for  this  wild  intense 
love  must  burn  my  heart  out — but  I  don't  care  ;  I  care 
for  nothing,  nothing  but  this  happiness — it  is  enough ; 
it  swallows  up  my  being.  I  could  not  love  more,  and 
yet  every  hour  I  love  him  better.  Mother,  do  you  think 


126  ADA'S  LIFE  ROMANCE. 

that  other  people  do,  can  love  as  I  do?  is  it  as  beautiful 
to  them  ?" 

"Yes,  my  darling;  there  are  thousands  of  hearts 
telling  the  same  story  to-day  !" 

"  Oh,  bless  them!  blessings  on  them  in  their  happi- 


"  And  blessings,  all  holy  blessings  on  those  who  are 
walking  in  dark  and  dreadful  paths,  without  any  joy  to 
help  them  through  their  lot  !  The  happy-hearted  should 
send  their  sunshine  to  these." 

"  Oh,  yes!"  murmured  Ada;  "but  who  can  turn 
from  their  heaven  to  look  on  such  leaden  pictures? 
Oh!  mother,  I  am  very,  very  selfish.  I  cannot  bear 
that  anything  should  break  in  upon  this  enchantment. 
I  have  almost  forgotten  that  a  day  of  reckoning  will 
come.  I  am  wicked,  I  know,  but  I  want  no  better 
heaven  than  I  have  !" 

"  My  poor  child  !  my  poor  child  '"  and  a  gentle  hand 
stroked  Ada's  hair,  while  glistening  tears  fell  upon  it. 

"  Why  do  you  say  i  poor  child,'  mother  ?"  asked  Ada, 
raising  her  eyes,  where  love  and  hope  unquenchable 
seemed  to  dwell.  "Your  rich  and  happy  child!"  and 
with  smiles  she  drew  down  the  beloved  face  and  kissed 
away  the  drops.  "  Mother,  dear,  I  feel  within  me  the 
assurance  that  this  happiness  must  be  immortal.  Do 
you  remember  these  words  : 

"  '  And  if  such  dreams  are  given 
While  at  the  portals  thus  we  stand, 
What  are  the  truths  of  heaven  ?' 

Oh  !  if  heaven  be  as  blessed  as  my  own  heaven,  I  shall 
ask  no  more  !" 


ADA'S  LIFE  ROMANCE.  127 

"  But,  dear  child,  it  will  not  be  as  beautiful,  unless 
you  learn  to  be  an  angel  here,  and  look  with  a  true  and 
tender  love  on  others  besides  those  jour  own  happiness 
is  bound  up  in." 

"Ah,  true!"  answered  the  young  wife,  and  poor 
Betsy's  imploring  face  came  before  her.  "  Mother,  will 
you  excuse  me  a  few  moments  ?"  she  asked,  rising 
hastily. 

"  I  must  go  myself,  dear.  I  have  stayed  longer  than 
I  intended.  Try  to-morrow  to  call  on  poor  Kate  Suth- 
ington,  and  comfort  her.  You  heard  that  Henry  Wil 
liams  had  married  in  Europe  ?" 

"No.     Oh!  Kate,  dear  Kate!" 

"  Well,  good-bye,  darling.  Come  and  see  us  very 
soon." 

"Yes,  yes.     Good-bye." 

Ada  bent  her  steps  to  the  kitchen,  and  there  she 
found  Betsy  sitting  by  the  table,  with  her  apron  over 
her  face,  crying. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Betsy  ?"  she  asked,  very  kindly. 

"  I  am  afraid  the  vessel  will  sail  in  the  morning,  and 
my  brother  cannot  come  over  in  it,  unless  I  send  the 
money  to  him  in  a  letter." 

"  Is  it  too  late,  do  you  think  ?"  and  a  great  pang  of 
self-reproach  went  through  the  heart  of  the  young  mis 
tress. 

"Perhaps  not,"  answered  the  girl,  with  a  look  ot 
hope. 

Ada  ran  to  her  room,  and  brought  utensils  for  writ 
ing,  which  she  rapidly  used.  Then,  after  enclosing  the 
money,  she  sealed  the  letter,  saying, 


128  ADA'S  LIFE  ROMANCE. 

"Now  hurry,  Betsy.  Here  is  sixpence  to  get  into 
the  omnibus.  You  will  reach  the  place  in  time." 

But  Betsy  did  not  reach  the  place  in  time.  She  waa 
half  an  hour  too  late,  and  her  young  brother,  as  well  0.3 
herself,  suffered  from  the  sickness  of  hope  deferred 
many  long  weeks,  because  the  fair  young  bride,  amid 
her  joys,  had  not  yet  learned  the  habit  of  instantly 
turning  a  patient  ear  to  others.  This  beautiful  life- 
lesson  her  guardian  angels  waited  to  teach  her,  that, 
when  her  hour  was  come,  she  might  enter  into  her  rest. 

A  year,  fraught  with  experience,  has  passed  away, 
silently  dropping  into  the  book  of  life  its  records ;  and 
Ada  Ward  is  within  her  favourite  room.  The  broad 
moonbeams  slant  across  the  carpet,  and  fall  upon  the 
form  lying  there  in  the  abjectness  of  despair.  A  pale 
cheek  is  pressed  to  the  foot- cushion.  Ada  has  that  day 
buried  her  little  babe,  and  cold,  black,  ghastly  shadows 
envelop  her ;  colder  and  blacker  than  they  might  have 
been,  because  her  husband,  finding  it  so  gloomy  at 
home,  has  gone  out  for  a  walk. 

"  Oh,  that  it  should  be  I !"  she  groaned,  wringing 
her  clasped  hands,  and  pressing  them  upon  her  heart, 
as  though  she  would  quiet  its  great  agony.  "  If  I  could 
die  !  If  I  could  only  die  !  Oh,  that  such  woe  should 
come  to  me  !  That  my  glorious  temple  of  love  should 
be  broken — dashed  to  pieces  eternally !  That  I  must 
live  years,  ages,  in  this  blackness  of  darkness !  Day 
after  day  pressing  my  hands  upon  my  heart  to  keep  it 
from  bursting !  If  we  were  parted,  I  think  I  could 
endure  it  better ;  but  to  gaze  in  his  face  and  read  no 
love  there ;  to  receive  with  a  grave,  repressed  face  his 


ADA'S    LIFE    ROMANCE.  129 

acts  of  politeness  ;  to  know  that  I  cannot  charm  him; 
that  there  is  no  winsome  light  in  my  eyes  to  him ;  no 
thing  precious  in  my  smile;  to  have  no  words  pass 
between  us  save  those  that  are  necessary  ;  and  to  aco 
often  more  smiling  words  addressed  to  others  than  to 
me.  Oh,  my  Father !  why  may  I  not  die  ?  Am  I  so 
unlovely,  so  unworthy  of  love?  Is  there  no  grace  in 
me  ?  My  mother,  my  mother !  oh,  to  lay  my  head  on 
her  sheltering  breast !  She  would  weep  her  soul  away 
to  know  that  her  cherished  child  was  an  unloved  wife. 
It  would  strike  to  the  core  of  my  father's  heart  to  hear 
the  cold  words  spoken  to  his  <  little  bird,'  as  he  used  to 
call  me.  I  am  no  one's  little  bird  now,  only  a  miserable, 
blasted  wretch,  with  the  elixir  of  life  for  ever  dried  up 
in  my  veins,  and  burning  ashes  heaped  on  my  heart. 
Little  babe  !  little  angel !  thou,  too,  art  taken  from  me  ! 
If  thou  wert  here,  soft  tears  might  perhaps  allay  this 
aching.  But  it  is  well  with  thee.  Only  one  pang  moro 
to  lose  thee,  but  I  can  bear  it,  when  I  remember  how 
merciful  it  is  to  thee.  Thou  wilt  not  be  subject  to  a  lot 
like  thy  mother's.  Sometime,  I  shall  come  to  thee,  my 
flower,  and  it  will  be  a  joy  to  look  within  thy  sweet 
eyes,  and  know  that  no  shadow  ever  darkened  them.  I 
must  live.  I  must  bear  on  to  meet  thee.  If  thy  dim 
pled  hands  could  be  laid  upon  my  brow,  I  should  think 
God  and  His  angels  were  merciful  to  my  pain,  but  IIo 
has  left  me  no  joy,  no  blessing !  He  has  bereaved  me 
awfully,  cruelly.  He  has  forgotten  to  be  gracious. 
Ah  !  that  I  were  stronger ;  that  I  could  argue  with  the 
Almighty.  I  did  not  ask  the  breath  of  life ;  it  is  hato 
ful  to  me  now.  Oh,  this  madness,  this  dreadful  rcbol 


ISO  ADA'S   LIFE    ROMANCE. 

lion  at  my  lot !  This  fearful  life,  without  hope,  and 
without  God  in  the  world !  If  I  could  sleep,  sleep  on 
and  get  some  rest,  and  grow  resigned,  and  wear  a  placid 
face,  and  quietly  tread  my  way  downward  to  the  grave ! 
Perhaps  I  could  bear  up  better  if  my  health  were  as 
strong  as  it  used  to  be.  Oh !  my  Father  and  my  God, 
forgive  me !  Be  merciful  to  thy  wretched,  lost,  aban 
doned  child  !  Shelter  me  until  the  storm  be  over-passed  ! 
I  will  endeavour  to  bear  my  cross,  to  wear  my  crown  of 
thorns." 

This  battle  with  life  went  on  in  Ada's  soul  for  months. 
Sometimes  the  evil  and  sometimes  the  good  triumphed ; 
most  frequently,  a  cheerless  despair  dwelt  within  her. 
She  saw  nothing  lovely,  nothing  to  be  desired  on  earth ; 
but  she  wore  a  quiet  face,  and  fulfilled  the  duties  of 
wife  and  housekeeper.  Friends  thought  she  seemed 
rather  pensive  since  the  death  of  her  babe,  and  not 
much  inclined  for  society.  Her  husband  thought  she 
had  grown  to  be  "  deuced  sober."  He  did  not  remem 
ber  in  whose  power  it  lay  to  dispel  that  soberness,  or 
that  he  had  freely  and  solemnly  promised  to  study  her 
happiness  before  that  of  any  other  mortal.  Ada's  soft 
eyes  lighted  with  love  when  her  parents  were  with  her, 
more  tender  and  caressing  than  ever ;  and  she  tasked 
herself  to  the  utmost  to  be  as  cheerful  as  their  Ada  used 
to  be.  A  thousand  sweet  and  graceful  acts  of  devotion 
she  performed  for  them ;  it  was  such  a  comfort  to  her 
to  anticipate  a  want.  Poor,  forlorn ,  one  !  this  was  one 
little  fruit  of  her  great  sorrow.  One  day,  when  her 
parents  had  parted  with  her  after  a  day's  visit,  her  father 
remarked,  earnestly, 


ADA'S    LIFE   ROMANCE.  131 

"  I  think,  dear,  our  Ada  grows  more  angelic  and 
thouglitful  of  our  happiness  every  time  we  see  her.  She 
was  always  a  lovely  child,  but  not  as  she  is  now.  Have 
you  observed  it,  Mary?" 

"Oh!  yes,"  and  the  wife  looked  into  her  husband's 
beaming  face  with  a  smile,  but  a  tear  fell  unobserved  on 
her  work.  The  mother  remembered  that  her  darling 
never  told  her  now  how  happy  she  was.  When  her  head 
lay  on  her  lap,  she  sometimes  said, 

"  Mother,  dear,  tell  me  of  all  that  is  noble  in  life ; 
how  we  may  be  purified  by  sorrow ;  it  was  a  sorrow  to 
lose  my  little  babe ;  teach  me  how  to  meet  her." 

And,  with,  fast  falling  tears,  the  mother  would  talk, 
and  Ada  would  weep  quietly,  very  quietly  and  softly, 
until  there  was  no  bitterness  within  her.  Then  she  would 
go  to  her  splendid  home,  and  with  gentle  patience  give 
Betsy  her  accustomed  lessons  in  reading  and  writing. 
When  her  head  reposed  on  her  pillow  on  such  nights  as 
these,  the  recording  angel  wrote,  "Another  deed  of  love 
is  born  from  her  great  sorrow." 

Ada  rarely  realized  this.  She  realized  that  the  gaunt 
demons  of  unbelief  and  despair  were  seeking  after  her 
soul,  and  that  they  had  made  a  desolation  there,  and 
tempted  every  slumbering  evil,  while  they  had  withered 
her  every  flower.  But  the  months  went  on,  still  silently 
dropping  their  records  into  the  book  of  life,  until  another 
year  had  completed  its  cycle.  Ada  had  sought  her  re 
treat  after  a  busy  day,  and  with  a  pensive  smile  had 
drawn  forth  her  life  romance.  Thus  she  wrote : — 

"  When  these  quiet  evening  hours  come,  and  I  am 
alone,  a  tide  of  great  and  irrepressible  regret  rushes 


i  ADAS  LIFE  ROMANCE. 

through  my  soul.  Sometimes  it  is  terrible  in  its  usebss, 
devouring  might,  and  again  it  flows  more  quietly  and 
dreamily.  I  often  fear  the  bird  of  resignation  will  never 
fold  its  wings  above  my  heart.  I  shall  never  be  really 
happy  again  ;  perhaps,  alas  !  never  content  and  capable 
of  gratitude  for  the  sad  gift  of  existence.  I  wish  to 
be ;  none  know,  but  myself,  how  great  are  my  efforts  to 
banish  the  memories  of  that  golden,  gleaming  vision, 
and  to  enter  heartily  into  all  that  is  about  me.  I  think 
the  greatest  woe  is  past ;  that  I  have  drank  all  that  is 
most  bitter  in  my  life's  cup ;  yet  it  seems  very  sad  to 
know  that  the  sweetness  was  all  drained  before ;  is  all 
gone !  hopelessly  gone  !  Yet  I  ought  to  be  thankful 
that  it  is  less  dreadful  to  exist ;  that  I  do  not  momently 
4  draw  the  breath  of  fear,'  as  I  did  when  my  self-decep 
tion  was  being  dissolved ;  thankful  that  I  know  it  is  vain 
to  make  those  heart-breaking  efforts  to  win  back  that 
love ;  yes,  thankful  that  I  arn  in  no  suspense ;  sick  no 
longer  from  hope  deferred ;  in  no  new  despair  when  his 
capricious  tenderness  vanishes  into  coldness.  Certainly 
I  know  what  to  rely  upon.  I  know  that  it  is  best  for 
me  to  interest  myself  in  others'  welfare,  to  think  as 
little  of  him  and  of  myself  as  possible,  as  far  as  it  ia 
consistent  with  every  duty.  Another  reason  I  have  to 
be  thankful — my  anger  towards  him  has  ceased ;  my 
burning,  maddening  sense  of  injury.  I  have  simply 
made  a  mistake.  I  thought  he  loved  me  for  what  I 
was ;  he  probably  thought  he  loved  me  somewhat,  too ; 
but  it  was  only  that  my  face  was  new,  and  bright  with 
joyousness  and  love  for  him.  It  would,  I  think,  havo 
been  the  same  with  any  other  little  maiden  he  had  mar- 


ADA'S  LIFE  ROMANCE.  133 

ried.  Then  it  is  some  consolation  that  I  spare  another 
young  and  noble  heart  from  this  quiet  breaking.  Why 
should  it  not  be  I  as  well  as  any  other  ?  Yes,  I  know 
that  I  can  bear  it,  and  mayhap  it  makes  me  a  comforter 
to  the  suffering.  Ah !  I  love  them  in  their  pain  with  a 
tenderness  so  infinite,  compared  writh  what  it  used  to  be. 
To-day  1  went  to  see  Kate  Suthington.  Ah  !  that  her 
love  should  still  have  power  to  tear  her  heart  like  a  vul 
ture  ;  she  bears  up  before  others  with  a  noble  dignity, 
and  Henry  Williams  is  a  weak  and  erring  man  to  her 
view,  now ;  he  has  lost  the  key  wherewith  he  unlocked 
a  soul  too  noble  for  him.  But  in  her  own  words — 

"  '  Oh,  Ada !  that  the  world  should  have  lost  its  love 
liness  ;  that  I  should  only  have  learned  what  happiness, 
beauty,  life  were,  to  have  lost  them !' 

"  Then  I  talk  to  her  from  my  soul's  depths.  I  cast 
about  to  find  some  recompense  for  all  this,  and  I  believe 
words  of  great  faith  and  wonderful  hope  break  from  my 
lips ;  words  that  charm  me  with  some  deep,  strange, 
all-powerful  feeling  that  God  is  doing  all  things  well. 
I  feel  serene  and  very  peaceful  after  this,  when  Kate 
lays  her  head  on  my  breast,  folds  her  arms  around  me, 
and  says, 

"  *  You  do  me  good,  Ada !  Yes,  there  may,  there 
must  be  a  something  deep  in  all  this,  that  we  cannot 
see ;  perhaps  when  the  ground  has  been  broken  and 
ploughed  more  deeply,  gold  may  be  found.' 

"  Then  we  take  out  our  sewing,  and  talk  of  the  books 
we  have  read,  or  one  reads  to  the  other,  and  we  part 
with  a  cheerful  glow  thrown  over  cur  souls  from  this 
friendship.' 


134  ADA'S   LIFE   ROMANCE. 

Five  years  later,  one  serene  afternoon  found  Ada 
Ward  within  her  favourite  room.  No  outward  changes 
of  great  moment  had  befallen  her,  save  that  the  furni 
ture  was  not  so  fresh.  One  might  have  thought  but  a 
day  had  passed.  Her  lovely  face  was  more  spiritual ; 
more  assured  and  earnest  in  its  expression ;  in  her  eyes 
a  world  of  trust  and  deep  hopefulness  might  be  found. 
At  this  moment  they  beamed  upon  Kate  Suthington 
with  a  loving,  laughing,  triumphant  look. 

"Ah,  Katy  darling!"  she  said,  "there  is  not  a  hap 
pier  mortal  on  earth  than  you,  traitoress  as  you  have 
been  to  your  first  love ;  and  this  new  husband  of  yours, 
has  he  erected  another  Eden  in  your  life  ?" 

"  Perhaps  so,"  answered  Katy,  with  a  soul-illumined 
emile. 

"And  you  have  learned  to  believe  with  me,  that  the 
pain  of  life  may  be  transition,  but  that  happiness  is  a 
real  entity ;  something  that  shall  come  some  day  to  the 
earnest  spirit ;  perhaps  here ;  perhaps  not  until  our  life 
has  opened  amid  the  everlasting  beauty." 

"  I  believe  it ;  and  should  I  lose  it  again,  I  would 
simply  wait,  and  strive  to  work  diligently,  that  others, 
as  well  as  myself,  might  gain  their  greatest  good." 

"  It  is  very  beautiful  to  see  great  happiness,"  said 
Ada,  softly ;  "  it  is  an  earnest  of  our  life  in  heaven, 
and  a  revealing  of  what  our  natures  are  capable  of.  It 
enables  us  to  measure  God's  love  better,  and  gives  us  a 
glimpse  of  something  divine." 

After  Kate  had  gone  to  her  happy  home,  Ada  wrote 
hi  her  journal  as  follows  : — 

"Katy  darling  has  been  here  this  afternoon;  dear 


ADA'S  LIFE  ROMANCE.  135 

Katy,  sweet  Katy,  happy  Katy.  I  think  she  has  no 
idea  of  the  degree  in  which  she  brightens  my  life ;  it 
used  to  give  me  a  pang  when  I  saw  happiness,  such  a3 
mine  was,  one  brief  while,  but  it  is  so  different  now ;  it 
gives  me  a  glow  of  such  heartfelt  pleasure.  I  say  to 
myself,  '  Not  yet,  a  wise  Father  permits  it  to  them ;  but 
you  know  your  own  heart,  and  God  knows  that  you  may 
need  a. discipline  very  different  from  theirs;  but  be  pa 
tient  and  grateful,  the  joy  is  coming.'  Oh  !  sometimes 
I  feel  a  boundless  hope  and  rapture  when  I  look  up  to 
God,  and  realize  the  great  love  with  which  He  has  or 
dered  my  lot.  I  think  I  never  should  have  taken  a 
broad  glance  at  life ;  never  should  properly  have  fitted 
myself  for  another  world,  if  this  had  been  as  happy  as 
I  wished  it.  How  differently  do  I  write  in  this,  my  life 
romance,  from  what  I  expected  to,  when  I  began  it ; 
but  with  all  its  sad  experience,  I  have  found  a  wealth 
in  life  that  makes  me  often  wonder.  I  have  wept  with 
gratitude  thai  this  priceless  gift  has  been  vouchsafed 
me,  that  it  will  never  have  an  end.  Oh  !  wonderful  to 
live  amid  fresh  recurring  joys,  for  ever ;  such  as  no  pen 
can  describe  ;  to  be  bathed  in  love,  and  ever  performing 
deeds  of  love !  To  be  able,  every  day  of  my  life,  to 
strive,  with  God's  help,  to  perfect  and  beautify  this 
future,  and  sometimes  to  be  able  to  arouse  others  to  this 
noble  strife ! 

"  Ungrateful  that  I  was  !  I  once  felt  that  my  life  was 
a  blasted  one.  What  does  it  signify  if  one  suffer?  I 
sometimes  ask  myself  when  the  cross  is  folded  to  my 
heart  heavily.  I  learn  very  soon  that  'He  that  goeth 
forth  and  weepoth,  bearing  precious  seed,  shall  doubtless 


13(3 


ADA  S    LIFE   ROMANCE. 


return  again,  bringing  his  sheaves  with  him !'  There 
are  so  many  quiet  pleasures  given  me,  I  look  upon  them 
sometimes  as  all  extras.  I  think  '  this  is  the  world  where 
the  battle  must  be  fought,  and  yet  so  many  little  joys  to 
cheer  us.'  Eternally  shall  I  thank  God  that  he  has 
taught  me  to  fight  this  conflict — that  the  morning  of  my 
day  was  sorrowful,  in  order  that  a  ripening  eternity 
should  be  joyful.  This  morning  I  went  to  see  one  of 
my  sick  neighbours — she  had  lost  a  beloved  husband.  I 
said  what  I  could  to  comfort  her,  but  she  answered, 

"  Ah  !  Mrs.  Ward,  I  could  speak  to  you,  as  you  do  tr 
me,  if  I  were  young,  rich,  happy,  one  of  the  favoured  oj 
the  earth  !" 

"  I  said  that  even  I  might  make  myself  miserable  if 
I  forgot  what  blessings  I  had — and  that  the  '  favoured  of 
the  earth  were  not  always  the  favoured  of  Heaven.'  But 
she  would  listen  to  nothing  of  this — her  vision  was  bounded 
to  a  few  fleeting  years — they  were  life  to  her — she  had 
no  soaring  hopes  beyond.  I  came  away  thinking  I  was  very 
rich,  because  I  hoped  I  had  an  investment  for  a  dearer, 
nobler  life — yet  I  will  try  to  open  a  vein  of  comfort  for 
this  afflicted  one — perhaps  she  may  in  time  believe  how 
earnestly  I  desire  her  good.  I  meet  with  so  many  noble 
spirits,  and  often  these  dear  ones  confide  to  my  ear 
heart-stories  full  of  interest  and  pathos,  and  it  is  a  holy 
pleasure  to  weep  and  wonder,  and  forget  my  own  heart- 
story  the  while,  or  only  remember  what  of  worth  has 
survived  it.  When  I  read  books  that  go  to  my  heart,  1 
feel  with  one  who  has  reached  the  haven  where  her  geniua 
is  no  longer  thwarted,  i  Life  is  richly  worth  living  for !' 
It  is  true  that  my  days  are  very  much  of  one  colour,  and 


THERE'S  WORK  ENOUGH  TO  DO.  j37 

household  love  does  not  bless  me  within  my  own  homo, 
yet  it  is  noble  to  strive  to  be  faithful  amid  all  this,  and 
to  hope  I  am  still  of  some  use.  My  little  life  romance 
is  of  a  gray  shade,  but  it  is  only  the  first  chapters  I  am 
writing  here — it  will  be  finished,  where  ?  In  heaven,  I 
hope!  Finished?  Ah,  never!  Its  beauty  shall  increase, 
its  glory  of  life  shall  be  too  dazzling  to  be  written  with 
an  earthly  pen ;  nevertheless,  the  romance  shall  go  on, 
and  never  reach  its  end,  in  the  world  that  is  eternal !" 

Ada  had  written  her  last  chapter  on  earth ;  the  sun 
shine  that  awoke  her,  was  amid  the  Everlasting  Beauty. 
When  she  had  put  away  her  writing  materials,  a  strange 
pain  shot  through  her  heart ;  ere  she  could  leave  the 
room,  ft  had  ceased  to  beat. 


THERE'S  WOKK  ENOUGH  TO  DO. 

THE  blackhird  early  leaves  its  rest 

To  meet  the  smiling  morn, 
And  gather  fragments  for  its  nest, 

From  upland,  wood,  and  lawn. 
The  busy  bee,  that  wings  its  way 

;Mid  sweets  of  varied  hue, 
At  every  flower  would  seem  to  say— 

"  There's  work  enough  to  do." 

The  cowslip  and  the  spreading  vine, 

The  daisy  in  the  grass, 
The  snow-drop  and  the  eglantine, 

Preach  sermons  as  we  pass. 
The  ant,  within  its  cavern  deep, 

Would  bid  us  labour,  tfco, 


138  THERE'S  WORK  ENOUGH  TO  DO. 

And  writes  upon  its  tiny  heap— 
"  There's  work  enough  to  do." 

The  planets,  at  their  Maker's  will, 
Move  onward  in  their  cars, 

For  Nature's  wheel  is  never  still- 
Progressive  as  the  stars  1 

The  leaves  that  flutter  in  the  air, 
And  Summer's  breezes  woo, 

One  solemn  truth  to  man  declare — 
"  There's  work  enough  to  do." 

Who  then  can  sleep  when  all  around 

Is  active,  fresh,  and  free  ? 
Shall  man — creation's  lord — be  found 

Less  busy  than  the  bee  ? 
Our  courts  and  alleys  are  the  field, 

If  men  would  search  them  through, 
That  best  the  sweets  of  labour  yield, 

And  "  work  enough  to  do." 

To  have  a  heart  for  those  who  weepy 

The  sottish  drunkard  win  ; 
To  rescue  all  the  children,  deep 

In  ignorance  and  fc.:£ ; 
To  help  the  poor,  the  hungry  feed, 

To  give  him  coat  and  shoe ; 
To  see  that  all  can  write  and  read — 

Is  "work  enough  to  do." 

The  time  is  short — the  world  is  wide, 

And  much  has  to  be  done; 
This  wondrous  earth,  and  all  its  pride, 

Will  vanish  with  the  sun  ! 
The  moments  fly  on  lightning's  wings, 

And  life's  uncertain,  too  ; 
We've  none  to  waste  on  foolish  things— 

"  There's  work  enough  to  do." 


THE  STEP-DAUGHTER. 

"  VERONICA  !"• — "  Veronica !" 

Yes;  I  heard  them  calling  and  searching  forme—- 
hither  and  thither  with  confused  exclamations  and  laugh 
ter.  I  heard  also  the  hurried  tread  of  feet  upon  the 
great  staircase,  the  opening  and  closing  of  doors,  and 
occasional  bursts  of  music  from  the  rooms  below.  Yet 
I  heeded  not  the  festivity  and  gladness,  and  remained 
secure  in  the  deep  window  overlooking  the  gardens,  and 
shaded  by  the  heavy  silken  curtains. 

It  was  a  festal  night  at  Glockenburn — a  night  of  re 
joicing,  for  my  father  had  but  a  few  hours  previous 
brought  back  to  his  stately  mansion,  a  new  bride.  For 
this  reason,  was  there  music  and  gayety,  brilliant  lights, 
beaming  faces  and  joyous  greetings. 

But  I  stood  aloof  from  it  all — proudly  alone,  with  a 
heart  full  of  evil  emotions.  I,  of  all  of  them,  owned 
no  thraldom  save  my  ivill,  that  one  great  self  of  my 
nature.  Revering  with  absorbing  devotion  the  sacred 
memory  of  my  dead  mother,  I  could  not  acknowledge 
another  in  her  place.  Child  though  I  was,  I  had  long 
been  the  only  mistress  of  Glockenburn,  and  should  I  thus 
surrender  my  royal  sceptre  into  stranger  hands  ?  I  who 
should  have  been  sole  sovereign,  sole  heiress  of  Glocken 
burn  ! 

All  the  bitterness  and  pride  of  my  spirit  rushed  forth 
at  these  thoughts,  and  my  whole  frame  quivered  -with 
emotion.  Envy,  hatred,  and  all  evil  passions,  crowded 


140  THE    STEP-DAUGHTER. 

around  my  heart.  I  plucked  one  by  one  the  red  roses 
that  clambered  about  the  lattice,  and,  tearing  them  in 
pieces,  dashed  them  down  into  the  walk  below. 

Again  could  I  distinguish  the  voices  of  my  gay  cousins, 
calling  repeatedly  and  with  impatience — "  Veronica  ! 
Veronica  !  where  art  thou?" 

But  I  closed  my  lips  firmly,  standing  upright  and 
proudly  in  the  full  moonlight,  behind  the  curtains.  Pre 
sently  steps  came  nearer,  and  a  hand  was  laid  upon  the 
lock  of  my  door.  I  knew  that  they  would  find  me  now ; 
that  they  would  drag  me  forth  in  their  giddy  mood.  So  I 
stepped  from  my  concealment  and  stood  calmly  awaiting 
them. 

Instantly  the  door  burst  open,  and  a  gay  troop  hurried 
into  the  apartment.  A  glad  shout  greeted  my  appear 
ance — then  again  they  grew  silent,  remaining  uncertain 
and  wavering  as  they  looked  upon  me. 

Haughtily,  and  with  angry  defiance  in  my  eyes,  I  stood 
in  their  midst. 

"Why  have  you  sought  me?"  I  cried,  passionately. 
"  Why  break  in  upon  my  solitude,  and  disturb  me  with 
your  merriment  ?  I  go  not  with  you — my  foot  shall  not 
cross  the  threshold  of  that  door." 

My  cousins  and  their  young  guests  shrank  back  in 
amazement  at  my  words.  Even  the  merry  Genevieve, 
their  leader,  was  abashed. 

"Veronica!"  said  my  father  in  a  stern  voice,  as  he 
stepped  into  the  apartment — "  you  are  no  longer  a  child, 
to  indulge  in  such  caprice.  I  command  you  to  follow  me." 

His  clouded  brow  and  tones  of  displeasure  left  me  no 
alternative.  I  obeyed. 


THE   STEP-DAUGHTER.  141 

With  a  beating  heart  and  disordered  dress  I  followed 
the  laughing  throng  down  the  broad  stairs,  through  the 
lighted  corridors,  even  tc  the  festal  rooms  below.  I 
looked  around  upon  the  gay  groups  that  hovered  through 
out  the  rooms.  All  wore  smiles  upon  their  countenances, 
and  were  clothed  in  gala-dresses.  My  dark  robe  and 
unbraided  hair  ill  accorded  with  the  rich  costumes  and 
shining  fabrics  which  ever  and  anon  floated  past  me  in 
the  dance.  Still  I  passed  onward  in  the  wake  of  my 
conductors,  silently  and  with  scornful  tread. 

At  the  upper  extremity  of  the  long  room,  underneath 
a  bridal  canopy  of  white  hangings  and  roses,  stood  a 
slight  and  graceful  figure.  She  wore  rich  robes  of  shin 
ing  satin,  a  veil  of  lace,  and  a  crown  of  nuptial  flowers. 
Very  fair  and  very  beautiful  she  looked  in  her  snowy 
attire.  I  had  never  dreamed  of  aught  so  lovely.  Her 
face  was  more  beautiful  than  that  of  the  Madonna  in  tho 
chapel,  more  angelic  than  that  of  the  pictured  saint  in  the 
calendar  of  the  Passover. 

She  was  the  new  bride,  she  was — my  stepmother. 

Had  she  been  less  lovely,  I  might  have  forgiven  her 
usurpation  of  my  rights.  But  that  very  loveliness  aroused 
my  hatred,  and  augmented  the  indomitable  pride  within 
me. 

We  stood  directly  before  her.  I  felt  that  all  eyes  were 
upon  me,  that  all  ears  awaited  the  sound  of  my  voice. 
She  stepped  hastily  forward — a  blush  was  upon  her 
cheek,  and  she  outstretched  both  her  fair  hands  to  me. 

I  did  not  reciprocate  the  movement.  I  did  not  even 
lift  the  bridal  veil  to  my  lips,  as  was  customary,  or  salute 
the  jewelled  cross  which  hung  upon  hei  arm. 


142  THE    STEP-DAUGHTER. 

Bowing  low  in  mock  reverence,  and  with  a  haughty  flush 
upon  my  brow,  I  spoke  clearly,  but  coldly : 

"You  are  welcome — quite  welcome  to  Glockenburn. 
I  wish  you  all  happiness,  and  greet  you  with  a  bridal 
greeting." 

Her  hands  dropped  beside  her ;  the  blush  died  upon 
her  cheek,  and  she  turned  away  with  suffused  eyes.  My 
father  gazed  upon  me  with  anger  in  his  glance,  yet  no 
word  escaped  his  lips.  The  guests  exchanged  whispers 
one  with  another,  and  my  cousins  stood  awe-struck  around 
me.  I  broke  from  their  midst  and  rushed  to  my  apart 
ment. 

I  donned  my  gayest  attire,  bound  my  waist  with  a 
golden  cord,  and  braided  my  long,  dark  hair  with  jewels. 
Flushed  and  excited,  I  stood  before  the  mirror  and  viewed 
myself  reflected  therein.  My  eyes  gleamed  with  unna 
tural  brilliancy,  my  cheeks  were  crimson,  and  illuminated 
my  dark  face.  I  could  not  believe  that  I  was  the  same 
calm,  passionless  Veronica  of  yore. 

I  did  not  stop  to  consider  my  new  character,  but  de» 
scended  again  the  staircase,  and  stood  once  more  in  the 
bridal  hall.  I  was  the  gayest  of  them  all.  I  whirled  in 
the  giddy  dance,  keeping  pace  with  the  music  in  impetu 
ous  delight.  My  senses  were  bewildered  ;  my  brain  on 
fire.  I  was  scarcely  aware  of  my  own  existence.  Yet 
wherever  I  turned,  I  felt  that  a  spell  was  upon  me.  Yes, 
I  felt  the  mournful  gaze  of  those  wondering  blue  eyes, 
although  I  saw  them  not.  I  knew  that  my  step-mother 
watched  my  every  motion  with  a  sorrowful  and  earnest 
glance, 

The  last  lights  were  extinguished,  the  music  hushed, 


THE   STEP-DAUGHTER.  143 

the  guests  departed.  I  gained  my  own  room  unmolested, 
and,  hastily  disrobing,  threw  myself  upon  my  couch.  I 
cast  aside  the  crimson  curtains,  and  allowed  the  moon 
light  to  fall  in  upon  me.  I  dared  not  look  back  upon 
my  past  actions,  lest  I  should  repent.  Feverish,  and 
with  an  exhausted  spirit,  I  closed  my  eyes.  That  night, 
a  vision  appeared  unto  me.  I  dreamed  that  a  white 
figure  bent  over  me  with  folded  hands,  and  it  said, 
"  Veronica,  I  greet  thee  with  a  bridal  greeting !" 

It  was  the  feast  of  the  Pentecost.  The  great  hall 
was  lined  with  green  branches,  and  garlands  were  hung 
upon  the  walls.  The  little  chapel  was  adorned  also  with 
evergreen,  and  the  altar  of  the  Madonna  was  wreathed 
in  myrtle  and  palm.  A  beautiful  Christ,  of  white  marble, 
was  placed  on  the  shrine,  It  wore  a  crown  of  roses,  and 
was  surrounded  by  waxen  lights.  The  silver  basket, 
containing  the  broken  bread,  was  beside  it,  covered  with 
an  embroidered  cloth  of  fine  linen.  My  young  cousins 
were  robed  in  white,  looking  peaceful  and  happy,  and 
wearing  little  knots  of  blue  flowers  in  their  bosoms. 
My  step-mother,  also,  was  more  beautiful  than  before ; 
even  paler  and  gentler.  Since  the  evening  of  the  bridal, 
we  had  ever  avoided  each  other.  She,  sadly  and  timidly ; 
I,  disdainfully  and  proudly.  My  father's  lips  were  closed 
lie  no  longer  smiled  upon  me.  Neither  did  ho  speak. 
My  cousins,  awed  by  my  unpardonable  conduct,  kept 
aloof,  and  did  not  molest  me  with  their  gayety. 

The  great  clock  on  the  staircase  struck  two,  the  hour 
for  prayer.  My  apartment  was  adjoining  the  little 
chapel,  and  there  I  sat  alone,  with  no  white  robe  about 


144  THE    STEP-DAUGHTER. 

me,  and  no  blue  flowers  resting  upon  my  unquiet  breast. 
I  could  hear  the  sound  of  the  organ,  swelling  out  its  mel 
low  notes  upon  the  air,  as  my  step-mother  played  the 
"  All  praise  Thee,"  the  divine  hymn.  How  touchingly 
its  deep  tones  spoke  to  me  !  melting  my  heart  and  teach 
ing  of  the  grace,  the  glory,  the  majesty  of  my  Creator. 

Then  there  was  a  great  hush,  a  stillness  profound, 
and  I  knew  that  they  were  at  prayer.  I  threw  myself 
upon  my  knees.  I  covered  my  face  with  my  hands, 
and  wept  the  first  tears  of  remorse  and  anguish  that 
had  ever  dimmed  my  eyes.  Oh !  how  great  was  my 
sin  and  self-abasement  !  How  immeasurably  great  the 
wickedness  of  my  heart !  I  took  my  rosary  from  my 
bosom,  and  bedewed  it  with  tears  as  I  prayed  to  the 
Holy  Mary,  and  to  my  mother  in  heaven,  to  bless  me 
and  to  guide  me  to  repentance. 

Again  I  listened.  I  heard  my  father  bless  the  broken 
bread,  and  ruy  cousins  responding  fervently  "  amen." 
Then  my  step-mother's  voice  spoke  clearly  and  dis 
tinctly. 

"  Peace  and  good-neighbourhood  be  between  us,  my 
children." 

And  again  they  responded  cheerfully  and  earnestly, 

"Peace  and  good-neighbourhood." 

"  Oh  !  how  those  words  thrilled  to  my  heart.  I 
longed  to  join  with  them,  also,  to  rest  my  weary  head 
upon  my  step-mother's  bosom,  and  whisper  those  words 
of  love  and  amity.  Crushed  and  humbled,  I  bowed 
myself  in  the  dust,  and  cried  aloud  for  forgiveness. 

Thus,  for  a  great  length  of  time,  I  remained  in  anguish 
and  despair,  my  face  hidden  among  the  cushions  of  the 


THE    STEP-DAUGHTER.  145 

couch.  At  last,  some  one  lifted  the  latch  of  my  door ; 
jet  I  heeded  it  not.  Light  footsteps  echoed  across  the 
floor,  and  the  rustle  of  garments  disturbed  me.  I  lifted 
iny  head — my  step-mother  stood  heside  me. 

She  still  wore  her  white  robes,  and  her  long  hair 
waved  upon  her  shoulders.  Her  beautiful  face  looked 
dovyu  upon  me  with  a  pensive,  angelic  expression. 

"  Peace  and  good-neighbourhood,"  she  uttered,  gently. 
Her  voice  was  tremulous  with  emotion,  and  there  were 
traces  of  tears  upon  her  countenance.  Those  tears  had 
been  shed  for  me — in  secret  and  in  sorrow. 

There  was  no  pride  in  my  heart  now.  I  took  both 
her  hands  in  mine,  and  drew  her  gently  down  besido 
me.  Her  lair  hair  fell  about  me,  and  I  laid  my  weary 
head  upon  her  bosom. 

"  Peace  and  good-neighbourhood,  my  mother,"  I  whis 
pered. 

She  encircled  me  with  her  arms,  and  I  could  feel  her 
warm  tears  upon  my  cheek  ;  and  thus  we  remained  in 
an  unspeakable  trance  of  joy. 

At  last,  my  step-mother  spoke.     She  said, 

"  Veronica,  I  also  have  erred  and  suffered ;  there 
fore,  have  I  less  to  forgive.  Once,  in  my  pride  of  heart, 
did  I  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  His  holy  purposes  and  love 
But  the  beloved  voice  and  angel-teachings  of  a  departed 
one  have  pointed  out  to  me  the  path  of  rectitude.  And 
now  am  I  unceasingly  thankful  for  the  beautiful  examples 
and  glorious  wisdom  of  our  Saviour." 

My  step-mother  ceased  speaking,  and  embraced  mo 
fervently.  Twilight  was  already  curtaining  the  windows, 

when  we  descended  the  stairs  arm  in  arm.     The  halls 
10 


140  OH,  WATCH    YOU    WELL   BY   DAYLIGHT. 

were  lighted,  and  a  glad  gleam  went  shining  upon  the 
walls  and  intertwining  among  the  gay  garlands.  My 
young  cousins  crowded  around  me  once  again,  and  my 
father  stood  smiling  in  their  midst.  With  a  subdued 
spirit,  I  knelt  at  his  feet  and  received  his  blessing. 

"  Peace  and  good-neighbourhood,"  whispered  the 
pretty  Genevieve,  at  my  side,  and  she  crowned  me  with 
a  wreath  of  myrtle  blossoms. 

1  looked  around  at  my  young  cousins,  with  their 
white  robes  and  happy  faces ;  at  my  step-mother,  beau 
tiful  and  loving ;  at  my  father,  with  his  kind  eyes  full 
of  tears.  Then  I  stood  up  among  them,  and  with  a 
thankful  spirit  cried  unto  them  all, 

"Peace  and  good-neighbourhood." 


OH;  WATCH  YOU  WELL  BY  DAYLIGHT. 

On,  watch  you  well  by  daylight — 

By  daylight  you  may  fear, 
But  keep  no  watch  in  darkness — ' 

For  angels  then  are  near ; 
For  Heaven  the  sense  bestoweth 

Our  walking  life  to  keep, 
But  tender  mercy  showetfe, 

To  guard  us  in  our  sleep. 
Then  watch  you  well  by  daylight, 

By  daylight  you  may  fear, 
But  keep  no  watch  in  darkness-— 

For  angels  then  are  near. 


FIRESIDE   AFFECTIONS.  147 

Oh,  watch  you  well  in  pleasure— 
For  pleasure  oft  betrays, 

But  keep  no  watch  of  sorrow, 
When  joy  withdraws  its  rays ; 

For  in  the  hour  of  sorrow, 
As  in  the  darkness  drear, 

To  Heaven  intrust  the  morrow, 
For  the  angels  then  are  near. 

Oh,  watch  you  well  by  daylight— 
By  daylight  you  may  fear, 

But  keep  no  watch  in  darkness— 
The  angels  then  are  near. 


FIRESIDE   AFFECTIONS. 

THE  man  who  sits  down  in  a  virtuous  home,  howler 
humble,  in  which  his  own  industry  enables  him  to  breathe 
the  atmosphere  of  independence,  and  his  wife's  manage 
ment  to  enjoy  cleanliness  and  comfort,  has  a  vast  scope 
for  the  creation  of  happiness.  The  minds  of  his  child 
ren, — of  his  wife, — his  own  mind,  are  so  many  micro 
cosms,  which  only  ask  to  be  inquired  into  and  developed, 
to  reveal  hoards  of  wealth,  which  may  be  coined  into 
current  enjoyment.  We  are  ever  too  little  sensible  of 
the  good  immediately  within  our  grasp ;  too  ready  to 
cavil  at  difficulties  and  to  declare  them  impossibilities. 
A  great  man  once  said  there  were  no  sach  things,  and 
as  all  proverbs  have  their  foundation  in  practical  truth, 
this  idea  may  receive  confirmation  from  the  common 
phrase — "  Where  there  is  a  will,  there  is  a  way."  It  i* 


148  FIRESIDE   AFFECTIONS. 

certain  that  the  difference  between  what  zeal  and  energy 
will  accomplish  with  small  means,  compared  with  what 
power,  ill  applied  or  feebly  applied,  will  long  leave  un 
achieved,  is  most  astounding.  Few  are  those  who  have 
not  to  reproach  themselves  with  supineness,  or  a  prodigal 
waste  of  time  and  resources ;  few,  who,  when  they  look 
back  upon  the  field  of  past  experience,  but  feel  how 
barren  they  have  left  the  track  which  might  have  been 
richly  cultivated.  Let  us  instantly  reform.  The  present 
will  become  the  future ;  let  us  resolve  that  it  shall  be 
rich  in  fruit,  delicious  to  the  reverting  spirit  of  review, 
and  yielding  good  seed  for  the  progressive  path  before 
us.  The  traveller  rarely  begins  with  his  own  country ; 
in  like  manner,  the  searcher  after  enjoyment  too  often 
looks  beyond  home  ;  too  late  in  life's  journey,  when  little 
of  either  strength  or  time  remains,  this  is  to  be  regretted. 
In  the  case  of  home,  the  early  neglect  is  usually  irre 
trievable,  where,  we  may  be  certain,  if  flowers  are  not 
cultivated,  weeds  will  spring, — where  the  violet  and  the 
rose  might  have  charmed  our  senses,  the  nettle  and 
nightshade  will  offend  them.  Fenelon  was  accustomed 
to  say,  "I  love  my  family  better  than  myself;  my 
country  better  than  my  family  ;  and  mankind  better  than 
my  country  ;  for  I  am  more  a  Frenchman  than  a  Fene 
lon,  and  more  man  than  a  Frenchman."  This  is  an 
instance  of  reasoning  more  beautiful  in  theory  than 
reducible  to  practice ;  I  should  be  satisfied  with  the  man 
who  proceeded  almost  inversely,  and  invested  his  first 
funds  in  the  domestic  treasury ;  these  once  established 
and  yielding  interest,  he  may  at  onco  enjoy  and  dispense 
at  will.  Many  spirits  are  moving  on  the  stream  of 


FIRESIDE    AFFECTIONS.  149 

society,  and  the  rising  waters  are  attesting  th«ir  influence. 
Religion  has  its  preachers,  science  and  politics  their 
lecturers,  but  there  seems  to  be  a  dearth  of  moral 
teachers — Apostles  of  the  Religion  of  Home,  who  would 
show  warmly  and  eloquently  "to  assembled  congregations 
the  beauty  and  the  benefits  of  the  home  affections, — the 
dreadful,  blank  and  ruinous  bankruptcy  attendant  on 
their  want  or  violation — who  would  send  away  their  dis 
persing  auditors  with  awakened  hearts,  each  saying  in 
the  secret  chamber  of  its  individual  breast, — "  I  will  be 
a  better  wife,  a  better  husband,  a  better  parent,  a  better 
child,  than  I  have  ever  been."  Those  who  should  make 
this  resolve  and  act  up  to  it  might  count  upon  an  exceed 
ing  great  reward — the  harvest  of  present  happiness,  and 
the  solace  of  future  consolation.  Of  the  latter  need,  let 
it  ever  be  remembered,  none  will  be  spared :  the  wedded 
will  be  the  widowed — the  parented  will  be  the  orphaned. 
The  links  of  life  are  not  more  surely  cemented  than  they 
are  struck  asunder,  and  happy  is  he  in  whose  living  hand 
is  left  the  fragment  of  the  chain,  if,  when  the  heart  that 
loved  him  is  cold,  he  can  lay  his  hand  upon  his  own,  and 
Bay — "  I  never  neglected  her — I  was  never  unkind  ;  we 
Buffered,  but  I  ever  sought  to  make  her  share  of  suffering 
the  least."  As  happy  she  who  can  recollect  habits  of 
devotion  and  endurance,  that  she  kept  ever  present  to 
her  mind  how  he  was  toiled  and  tried  in  the  conflicting 

O 

struggles  of  the  world  abroad,  and  had  sedulously  sought, 
as  much  as  in  her  lay,  to  create  for  him  a  recompense  at 
home — sweet  will  be  this  drop  in  her  bitter  cup  of 
bereavement.  Without  risking  the  charge  of  partiality, 
I  may  say  this  consolatory  consciousness  of  self-abnoga- 


150  FIRESIDE    AFFECTIONS. 

tion  fulls  more  often  to  the  lot  of  woman  than  of  man. 
The  kindlier  feelings,  checked  in  their  outset,  grow 
stagnant,  or  take  a  concealed  and  sluggish  course,  never 
yielding  sufficient  evidence  of  vitality.  Thus  many 
whom  self-culture  has  redeemed  mentally  from  the  bond 
age  of  early  bad  habits,  have  failed  to  attain  moral 
emancipation  from  the  thraldom  in  which  want  of  genial 
manners  principally  contributes  to  hold  them.  I  have 
noticed  even  a  false  shame  evinced  at  giving  any  evi 
dence  of  susceptibility  to  the  lovable  emotions,  and 
rudeness  affected  to  hide  the  tenderness  that  was  yearn 
ing  to  burst  forth.  To  these  I  would  say,  in  the  beauti 
ful  language  of  a  popular  song, 

Love  now !  ere  the  heart  feels  a  sorrow, 
Or  the  bright  sunny  moments  are  flown, 

Love  now !  for  the  dawn  of  to-morrow 
May  find  thee  unloved  and  alone. 

Oh !  alone — alone  in  the  house  of  mourning !  What 
would  you  not  then  give  to  recall  the  time  when  you 
suffered  your  best  feelings  to  lie  in  unprofitable  silence  ? 
— what  would  you  not  give  to  recall  to  consciousness — 
consciousness  of  your  love,  your  contrition,  the  heart 
you  had  often  hurt  by  apparent  indifference?  By  a 
magic  peculiar  to  death,  all  that  was  beautiful,  was 
amiable  in  the  departed,  rises  on  the  stricken  heart  of 
the  survivor  with  renewed  beauty ;  while  in  the  same 
proportion  his  own  merits  shrink — his  own  demerits  are 
magnified.  Spare  thyself  this  bitter  addition  to  a  bitter 
draught — the  cup  may  not  pass  from  thee  !  Let  not  the 
Bun  of  affection  go  down  while  it  is  yet  day,  or  the  night 
of  thy  mourning  will  be  dark  indeed  !  It  seems  strange 


FIRESIDE   AFFECTIONS.  151 

that  mental  improvement  should  be  more  easy  than 
moral  amelioration — but  so  it  is;  the  mind's  prejudices 
fall  before  that  silent  monitor,  a  book,  and  the  faculties 
assert  their  freedom  ;  but  it  requires  more  effort  to  effect 
a  change  of  manner,  and  modes  of  expressicn — if  the 
amenities  have  not  grown  with  our  growth,  strengthened 
with  our  strength,  they  rarely  take  kindly  to  the  soil. 
Gentleness  and  tenderness  then  must  be  among  the  first 
and  most  constant  of  the  influences  exerted  over  the 
infant  mind.  The  general  increase  of  kindliness  and 
urbanity,  in  the  classes  in  which  the  graces  of  society 
have  been  least  regarded,  are  among  the  best  advances 

O  O 

that  have  long  been  making.  The  history  of  private  life 
in  past  times  exhibits  a  severity  of  conduct  towards  the 
young,  from  a  mistaken  notion  of  its  utility,  nay,  of  its 
necessity,  that  it  is  painful  to  recall.  The  sceptre  was 
not  deemed  more  essential  to  the  king,  the  mace  to  the 
keeper  of  his  conscience,  than  the  rod  to  the  school 
master  ;  and  if  portraits  of  these  birch-loving  pedagogues 
could  be  presented  to  us,  no  doubt  the  stereotyped  frown 
would  be  found  on  every  face.  Lady  Jane  Grey  records 
that  she  never  sat  in  her  mother's  presence,  and  severe 
study  was  a  severe  shelter  from  such  severe  austerity. 
Joy  to  the  young  spirits  of  the  nineteenth  century — - 
everywhere  be  their  hearts  opened  by  kindness  and  en 
couragement  !  Let  us  not  be  niggards  of  the  moral 
comfit — praise.  Credit  to  a  dawning  or  dormant  capa 
city  is  often  what  an  advance  of  capital  is  to  a  strug 
gling  trader — it  assists,  perhaps  inspires,  the  exertion 
that  enables  him  to  realize  fortune  and  repay  the  loan 
with  interest. 


WORK   FOR   HEAVEN. 

Ir  thou  have  thrown  a  glorious  though* 

Upon  life's  common  ways, 
Should  other  men  the  gain  have  caught, 

Fret  not  to  lose  the  praise. 

Great  thinker,  often  shalt  thou  find, 

While  folly  plunders  fame, 
To  thy  rich  store  the  crowd  is  blind, 

Nor  knows  thy  very  name. 

What  matter  that,  if  thou  uncoil 
The  soul  that  God  has  given  ; 

Not  in  the  world's  mean  eye  to  toil, 
But  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  ? 

If  thou  art  true,  yet  in  thee  lurks 

For  fame  a  human  sigh, 
To  Nature  go  and  see  her  works, 

That  handmaid  of  the  sky. 

Her  own  deep  bounty  she  forgets, 

Is  full  of  germs  and  seeds  ; 
Nor  glorifies  herself,  nor  sets 

Her  flowers  above  her  weeds. 

She  hides  the  modest  leaves  between. 

She  loves  untrodden  roads  ; 
Her  richest  treasures  are  not  seen 

By  any  eye  but  God's. 

Accept  the  lesson.  Look  not  for 
Reward  ;  from  out  thee  chase 

All  selfish  ends,  and  ask  no  more 
Than  to  fulfil  thy  place. 


SPIRITUAL    BEAUTY. 

THE  following  article  is  a  part  of  an  eloquent  discourse 
l»y  Rev.  Chauncey  Giles,  of  Cincinnati.  No  one  can 
read  it  without  interest  and  profit. 

Beautiful  as  the  material  world  is  in  the  form  and 
colour  of  its  objects,  it  is  the  least  beautiful  and  excel 
lent  that  the  Lord  could  create.  All  natural  objects,  in 
their  smallest  and  simplest  forms,  as  well  as  in  their 
largest  and  most  complex  combinations,  are  the  rudest 
outlines  and  the  faintest  shadows  of  that  beauty,  which 
is  inexpressible  and  incomprehensible  by  any  finite  power, 
in  its  Divine  essence. 

And  yet  this  is  a  beautiful  world,  and  does  retain  many 
of  the  lineaments  of  its  Divine  Prototype.  We  cannot 
open  our  eyes  without  seeing  it,  and,  if  our  lives  are  at 
all  attuned  to  the  harmonies  of  the  universe,  without 
being  affected  by  it.  It  dwells  even  in  the  various  hues 
of  light  that  flash  and  sparkle  in  the  rude  and  shapeless 
Btones  in  the  earth,  in  the  various  combinations  of  moun 
tain  and  valley,  hill  and  dale,  stream  and  lake  and 
ocean ;  it  is  embodied  in  the  infinitely  various  forms  and 
textures  of  the  vegetable  creation;  in  the  grass  arid 
forest,  in  the  slender  plant  and  the  wide-spreading  tree, 
and  above  all  in  the  flowers,  which  seem  to  be  the  very 
embodiment  of  the  most  chaste  and  delicite  beauty. 
And  then  over  all  these  forms,  so  countless  in  their 
numbers,  so  wonderful  in  their  varieties  and  combina 


154  SPIRITUAL   BEAUTY. 

tions,  tnere  is  thrown  the  many-hued  garment  of  light. 
Morning  comes  and  lifts  the  curtain  of  the  night,  spreads 
its  green  over  the  landscape,  gives  to  the  lily  its  white,  to 
the  rose  its  red,  and  to  every  flower  and  petal  its  proper 
lint,  sparkles  in  the  dew  and  plays  in  the  streams.  Ls 
it  not  the  beauty  of  the  Lord  upon  the  earth  ? 

But  even  this,  various  as  it  is,  is  not  unchanging,  is 
indeed  never  the  same.     There  is  a  beauty  of  the  morn 
ing,  when  everything  is  waking  to  new  life  and  activity; 
and  another  of  the  evening,  when  the  shadows  lengthen 
and  the  quietude  of  repose  is  settling  down  upon  the 
earth   and  gathering  everything  to  rest.     There  is  a 
beauty  of  noonday,  when  the  earth  is  hot  and  every 
object  is  bright  and  flaming  in  the  full  blaze  of  the  sun; 
and  there  is  another  of  night,  when  the  moon  throws  her 
silver  light  over  flower  and  leaf,  and  valley  and  stream, 
or  the  earth  is  canopied  by  a  broad  firmament  of  jet, 
gemmed  with   diamonds  of  suns.     There  is   a  beauty 
peculiar  to  the  spring,  another  to  the  autumn,  one  to 
summer,  another  to  winter.     The  clouds,  with  their  ever- 
changing  forms,  chasing  each  other  above  while  their 
shadows  move  with  even  pace  below,  or  stretching  in 
broad  bars  across  the  western  sky,  flaming  like  molten 
gold  and  looking  like  the  sunny  isles  of  the  blest ;  and 
the  rain,  the  frost,  and  the  snow;  and  the  vapour  that 
the  earth  sends  up  on  wings  of  fire  as  incense  to  the 
morning  sun ;  the  wind  that  gives  motion  and  apparent 
life  to  all  these  forms,  making  the  hills  sing  and  the 
leaves  and  waters  dance— all  these  elements  unite  in 
never-ending  combinations,  and  each  one  adds  something 
to  the  beauty  of  the  whole,  and  keeps  the  scene  shifting 


SPIRITUAL   BEAUTY.  155 

in  perpetual  play  before  us.     These  are  some,  a  few  of 
the  more  general  elements  that  constitute  the  beauty  of 
the  material  world.     But  he  who  has  an  eye  for  it,  wU 
has  the  inward  that  answers  to  the  outward  beauty,  can 
see  more  at  one  glance  than  the  poet  can  tell  or  the 
painter  put  upon   canvas.     This   is  the   beauty  of  the 
Lord  in  the  rocks,  and  sand,  and  water;   this  is  the 
beauty  that  He  creates  out  of  the  mould,  and  the  refuse 
of  living  forms.     If  such  is  the  beauty  of  this  world, 
where  everything  is  so  coarse  and  hard  and  unyielding 
to  the  plastic  forces  of  the  spirit,  what  must  be  the 
beauty  of   the  spiritual  world,  where  substances  yield 
instantly  and   perfectly  to   the   slightest   thought,    and 
where  there  are  ten  thousand  distinct  forms  that  com 
bine  to  make  one  form  here !     When  I  think  that  the 
beauty  of  this  world  is  but  the  rude  sketch  and  the  faint 
outline  of  that  of  the  spiritual,  when  I  know  that  the 
elements  that  compose  the  forms  in  the  spiritual  world 
are  infinitely  more  numerous,   and  inconceivably  more 
distinct  and  perfect  than  they  are  here— though  they 
seem  almost  infinite  in  this,  and  so  wonderful  that  they 
surpass  all  description,  my  heart  swells  with  indescriba 
ble  emotion.     I  feel  like  bowing  my  head,  and  my  heart 
too,  in  penitence  and  shame  that  I  should  ever  have  a 
selfish  wish,  that  I  should  ever  distrust  the  goodness  of 
a  love  which  manifests  itself  in  such  forms,  and  makes 
euch  provision  for  the  wants,  and  such  a  glorious  habita 
tion  for  the  dwelling-place  of  its  children. 

But  beautiful  as  the  world  is,  it  is  the  lowest  form  of 
beauty,  and  in  many  respects  imperfect.  It  is  perpetual 
because  there  is  a  constant  succession  of  forms ;  the 


150  SPIRITUAL   BEAUTY. 

flower  and   the  cloud,  the  forest  and  the  stream,  thai 
compose  the  landscape  to-day,  or  form  a  most  important 
part  of  it,  are  gone  to-morrow,  never  more  to  be  restored. 
The  withered  flower  and  the  decayed  fruit  and  the  fallen 
tree  disappear  and  become  parts  of  other  forms.     Each 
indi  /idual  thing  also  has  but  a  few  of  the  elements  which 
are  found  in  the  whole.     One  has  colour,  another  form, 
another  both.    But  all  these  beauties  are  collated  in  the 
perfect  man.     There  is  not  a  form,  nor  a  motion,  nor  a 
colour,  nor  a  quality   of  any  kind  that  can  be  called 
beautiful  that  is  not  found  in  man,  and,  so  far  as  he  lives 
a  life  of  true  order,  in  every  man.     The  reason  is  evi 
dent.     All  the  goodness  and  beauty  that  exists  in  the 
world  is  an  expression  in  material  forms  of  the  infinite 
goodness  and  beauty.     And  as  man  was  made  in  the 
likeness  and  image  of  the  Divine,  so  he  is  represented 
in  everything   in  the  universe.     Everything  without  is 
the  correlative  of  something  within,  something  which  has 
an  actual  and  substantial  existence,  or  which  yet  remains 
as  a  mere  possibility.     And  this  is  the  real  cause  of  the 
effect  that  beautiful  objects  have  upon  us.     They  would 
afford  us  no  pleasure  if  there  was  no  correlative  within, 
no  answering  form  that  vibrated  in  unison  with  it.     It 
is  this  correspondence  of  the  outward  to  the  inward 
world  which   gives  birth  to   art.      The   beauty  within 
longs  to  express  itself  in  suitable  forms  without,  and  it 
may  seek  to  attain  its  end  in  a  poem  or  a  picture,  a 
Btatue  or  a  song. 

But  man  has  not  only  the  forms,  motions,  colours,  and 
qualities  which  constitute  the  beautiful  in  the  natura1 
world,  in  animals  and  plants,  but  he  has  an  entirely  DOW 


SPIRITUAL   BEAUTY.  157 

plane  of  being — the  spiritual,  a  degree  of  life  higher  in 
the  scale  of  existence — a  nobler  man  composed  of  organs 
formed  from  spiritual  substances.  This  degree  of  life 
is  not  only  immeasurably  higher  and  nobler  than  the 
life  of  animals  and  plants,  but  it  heightens  and  gives  new 
effects  to  those  forms  and  qualities  which  he  has  in  com 
mon  with  the  lower  orders  of  creation.  It  is  a  new  and 
purer  light  shining  through  them,  giving  them  a  higher 
beauty,  a  richer  colouring,  and  a  more  complicated  and 
perfect  action. 

But  it  does  more  than  this.  It  lifts  man  out  of  the 
material  world,  and  frees  him  from  the  shackles  of  time 
and  space.  Thus,  the  more  you  put  into  the  mind,  the 
more  you  increase  its  capacity.  The  more  beautiful  our 
spiritual  forms  become,  the  more  is  their  power  increased 
to  attain  to  a  still  higher  beauty.  Thus,  when  our  pro 
gress  is  in  the  right  direction,  it  increases  in  a  constantly 
accelerated  ratio.  This  we  know  from  experience.  The 
more  we  know  the  easier  we  learn;  as  the  more  living 
branches  a  tree  possesses",  the  more  blossoms  and  fruit 
it  can  bear. 

The  beauty  of  the  natural  world  and  of  the  material 
body  is  limited  both  in  time  and  space,  an4  by  the  im 
perfection  of  the  substances  of  which  it  is  composed  ;  but 
the  spirit  has  no  such  limits.  You  cannot  crowd  the  can 
vas  too  much ;  you  cannot  confuse  by  multiplying  the 
images.  The  more  they  increase  in  number  the  more 
clearly  defined  and  distinct  the  forms  of  each  feature  and 
organ  become. 

The  material  world  and  the  human  body  is  passive  to 
the  forces  that  act  upon  it.  It  offers  no  resistance  ex- 


158  SPIRITUAL    BEAUTY. 

cept  that  which  inheres  in  its  substance.  It  assumes  any 
shape  that  the  plastic  power  can  give  it.  The  body  will 
take  any  form  that  the  soul  gives.  The  soul  is  the 
mould,  into  whose  form  the  body  is  cast.  Every  mate 
rial  organ  in  all  its  parts,  is  the  image  of  the  soul  at 
Borne  stage  in  its  life.  I  say  at  some  stage  of  its  life,  for 
the  soul,  composed  of  spiritual  substances,  may  change 
much  quicker  than  the  body,  and  may  be  either  more  or 
less  beautiful  than  the  body,  as  it  is  advancing  or  retro 
grading  in  spiritual  life.  But  to  the  spirit  is  given  the 
power  of  receiving  or  rejecting  the  higher  life  that  would 
mould  it  to  the  glorious  beauty  of  heaven. 

As  the  beauty  of  the  material  world  originates  in  the 
Divine  love  and  wisdom,  and  is  the  expression  of  them 
in  material  forms,  so  human  beauty,  which  embodies  them 
all,  has  its  origin  in  the  same  source.  For  the  Lord 
dwells  in  the  highest  regions  of  man's  mind,  far  above 
his  conceptions  and  consciousness,  and  is  ever  striving 
to  descend  and  ultimate,  in  the  lower  planes  of  man's 
life,  the  unutterable  beauty  and  excellence  of  the  higher  ; 
and  he  does  descend  and  moulds  the  lower  f^-ms  into  his 
image  and  likeness,  so  far  as  man  permits  him. 

We  have  thus  far  endeavoured  to  gain  a  general  con 
ception  of  the  heauty  of  the  Lord,  as  it  id  exhibited  in 
the  material  w^rld  and  embodied  in  the  human  form,  va 
ried,  heightened,  and  intensified  by  a  spiritual  soul.  Wo 
have  found  in  man  the  correlative  of  all  these  forms, 
accompanied  with  an  unlimited  capacity  of  reception  and 
combination,  and  that  the  Lord  is  always  in  the  effort  to 
come  down  upon  the  earth  of  every  human  being — that 
is,  into  the  natural  man,  and  even  into  the  body — that 


SPIRITUAL    BEAUTY.  150 

Ills  will  may  1>e  done  in  the  ultimatcs  of  life  as  it  is  in 
the  heavens  of  our  minds  ;  and  thus  that  even  our  k  west 
natural  faculties  may  be  glorified. 

It  is  a  very  common  remark  that  man  is  the  maker 
of  his  own  fortunes,  meaning  by  that  his  wealth,  his  know- 
ledge,  and  his  position  in  social  and  political  life ;  and 
there  is  much  truth  in  the  remark.  But  it  is  equally 
true,  that  he  is  the  maker  of  himself,  of  his  own  spirit 
ual  form,  and  he  is  every  day  changing  his  features  and 
moulding  his  form  after  a  heavenly  or  infernal  model. 
It  is  true  we  have  nothing  to  do  in  determining  the 
original  pattern  of  our  forms  or  of  the  substances  of 
which  they  are  composed.  We  originate  nothing,  our 
agency  only  consists  in  reception  and  use.  We  are  at 
first  the  mere  outline  of  a  man,  and  we  have  a  whole 
eternity  before  us  in  which  to  fill  it  up  and  become  men ; 
and,  as  I  have  before  remarked,  the  more  we  receive  the 
more  we  shall  have  the  capacity  to  receive.  The  more 
excellent  our  forms,  the  greater  power  to  attain  to  a 
higher  excellence.  If  we  have  any  agency,  then,  in  the 
fashioning  of  our  spiritual  forms,  it  becomes  of  the  ut 
most  importance  that  we  should  know  what  it  is,  and  how 
•we  ought  to  exercise  it.  Let  us,  then,  look  more  particu 
larly  at  the  origin  of  beauty,  and  the  means  of  obtain 
ing  it. 

"  All  beauty  is  from  good,  in  which  is  innocence.  Good 
itself,  when  it  flows  in  from  the  internal  man  into  tlip 
external,  constitutes  the  beautiful,  and  thence  is  all  th?> 
human  beautiful."  "Every  angel  is  the  form  of  his 
own  affection,"  and  his  beauty  is  in  exact  proportion  to 
the  genuine  good  and  innocence  in  that  affection  ;  and 


160  SPIRITUAL   BEAUTY. 

thus  we  may  learn  that  the  way  to  become  beautiful  ia 
to  become  good.  When  we  say  that  every  angel  is  the 
form  of  his  own  iffection,  we  must  keep  in  mind  that 
affection  is  not  a  mere  abstraction,  but  that  it  originates 
in  spiritual  and  substantial  forms,  just  as  music  origi 
nates  in  the  instrument,  and  takes  its  form  and  quality 
from  it.  When  an  artist  makes  a  picture  or  a  statue,  if 
it  is  true  to  life,  whether  ideal  or  not,  we  see  in  it  th$ 
embodiment  of  some  passion  or  virtue,  or  affection  ;  and 
if  it  is  well  done,  ail  who  know  anything  of  that  quality 
will  recognise  it.  Why  ?  Because  that  form  when  ani 
mated  by  a  living  soul,  and  set  into  activity,  will  produce 
that  affection.  There  is  no  affection  out  of  a  form,  any 
more  than  there  is  strength  where  there  is  nothing  to  be 
strong,  or  sweetness  without  anything  that  is  sweet 
When  we  speak  of  goodness  then  as  being  the  origin  of 
beauty,  we  do  not  mean  an  abstraction,  but  we  mean  some 
plastic  power  that  is  in  itself  a  form  of  beauty,  and  has 
the  ability  to  impress  its  own  lineaments  upon  other  sub 
stances.  There  is  no  abstract  goodness,  no  more  than 
there  is  abstract  food.  If  we  wish  the  beauty  of  the 
Lord  our  God  to  be  upon  us,  we  must  receive  his  life  and 
live  it.  We  must  live  according  to  true  order,  so  far  as 
we  understand  it ;  we  must  give  up  our  own  wills,  so  far 
as  they  are  grounded  in  self-love  and  the  love  of  the 
•world,  and  compel  ourselves  to  think  and  live  a  hea 
venly  life,  and  then  every  organ  and  feature  of  our  spi 
ritual  form  will  be  moulded  into  a  heavenly  beauty. 

Thus,  if  we  wish  to  change  our  spiritual  forms,  the  way 
lies  plain  before  us.  We  must  change  our  affections ; 
find  this  we  can  do,  or  permit  the  Lord  to  do  for  us,  for 


SPIRITUAL    BEAUTY.  161 

»s  I  have  said,  he  dwells  in  the  highest  regions  of  our 
minds  in  his  own  divine  perfections,  and  is  ever  knock- 
ing  to  us  to  open  the  door  and  let  him  descend  to  the 
ultimate  plane  of  life. 

Not  only  the  face  but  the  attitude  of  the  whole  form 
changes  with  a  change  of  affections.  A  great  sorrow  or 
a  great  success  will  sometimes  so  change  the  whole  con 
tour  and  form  of  the  face  that  an  intimate  friend  can 
hardly  recognise  us.  The  expression  of  the  face  is 
changed  every  moment  in  animated  and  varied  discourse  ; 
and  all  that  is  necessary  to  establish  any  particular  fea 
ture  is  habitually  to  exercise  the  affection  of  which  it  is 
the  form.  Every  time  we  exercise  a  good  affection,  we 
do  something  to  mould  ourselves  into  its  form,  and  to 
establish  it  as  a  permanent  lineament  in  our  features. 

If  we  felt  the  full  force  of  this  truth,  it  would  often 
have  a  controlling  influence  over  our  minds,  and  the 
affections  we  exercised.  There  are  many  who  are  care 
ful  enough  of  their  external  appearance.  They  take 
good  care  of  their  manners,  their  dress,  their  complexion, 
but  think  little  of  the  beauty  or  deformity  they  are  be 
coming  while  they  are  thinking  of  these  very  things. 
When  we  regard  the  consequences  of  our  actions  so  far 
as  they  affect  others,  and  react  upon  ourselves  in  the 
form  of  pleasure  or  pain,  we  think  we  have  taken  the 
>hole  into  account.  But  we  have  omitted  the  most  im 
portant  effect,  the  change  actually  wrought  in  our  spir 
itual  forms. 

Who  would  wish  to  become  the  embodiment  of  prido 
and  vanity,  so  that  they  should  appear  in  every  feature, 
tnd  act  in  every  motion  ?  And  yet  every  time  we  are 
11 


162  SPIRITUAL    BEAUTY". 

proud  or  vain,  we  do  something  towards  becoming  then 
forms.  The  pangs  of  envy  are  great  enough  in  them 
selves,  it  would  seem,  but  who  could  bear  the  thought 
of  being  the  embodiment  of  that  vile  passion  ?  And  yet 
we  cannot  be  envious  without  changing  ourselves  for  the 
time  we  exercise  the  passion,  into  its  form.  Who  woulc 
not  shrink  with  horror  at  the  thought  of  being,  in  thfl 
light  of  heaven,  the  personification  of  low  cunning  or 
spiteful  malice  ?  To  have  the  shrewd  leer  of  the  one 
lurking  in  the  eye,  and  stealing  forth  from  every  feature, 
or  the  vile  passion  of  the  other  loading  the  breath,  and 
stinging  every  one  into  spite  against  others  !  It  would 
be  more  than  the  brand  of  Cain,  and  we  might  wrell  cry 
out  if  we  knew  it,  "  My  punishment  is  greater  than  I 
can  bear."  Are  there  any  here  who  would  voluntarily 
give  themselves  up  to  become  the  personification  of  anger 
and  revenge  ?  or  who  would  dedicate  themselves  in  all 
coming  time  to  be  the  type  of  avarice  ?  And  yet  when 
ever  we  give  way  to  these  passions,  we  become  their 
infernal  deformities,  and  if  we  do  it  habitually,  we  fash 
ion  ourselves  into  their  deformity.  We  turn  away  with 
disgust  from  the  loathsome  reptiles  that  crawl  forth  from 
the  slirne,  and  love  the  foul  places  of  the  earth ;  but  they 
are  the  correspondents  and  forms  of  low  sensual  affec 
tions,  and  when  we  give  way  to  them,  we  transform  our 
selves  into  their  likeness.  WTe  are  all  actors  in  the 
great  drama  of  life,  and  it  is  to  many  a  terrible  tragedy, 
fcr  we  not  only  act  our  part,  but  we  become  it.  We 
cannot  throw  off  the  mask  when  it  is  ended.  If  we 
choose  an  evil  part  we  are  henceforth  that  evil.  All  its 
deformities  are  wrought  into  us ;  its  ugly  lineaments  are 


SPIRITUAL    NEAUTY.  163 

traced  in  every  line  and  feature  of  the  face,  and  its  in 
most  soul  flames  forth  in  every  expression,  and  starts  in 
every  motion.  The  disguises  we  assumed  and  loved  to 
personate  have  become  realities,  and  the  whole  being  ig 
moulded  into  the  dominant  love.  This  is  a  penally 
which  we  think  little  of,  but  which  we  cannot  escape, 
for  it  inheres  in  the  very  nature  and  conditions  of  life. 
It  matters  not  whether  we  play  our  part  in  public  or 
private-,  there  is  no  hiding-place  where  we  can  escape 
from  ourselves.  If  we  can  conceal  our  deformities  front 
others  by  fair  pretence,  we  often  think  we  have  avoided 
the  most  serious  consequences  of  evil,  but  that  is  only  a 
omall  item  in  the  terrible  catalogue.  If  it  were  possible 
that  we  could  hide  from  the  eye  of  omniscience  itself,  we 
should  still  be  the  evil  we  loved,  and  its  repulsive  and 
loathsome  life  would  be  embodied  in  every  feature  and  mo 
tion.  How  repulsive,  we  may  form  some  conception  from 
monstrous  animal  and  insect  forms ;  for  as  all  that  is  good 
and  beautiful  in  the  world  is  a  correspondent  of  all  that 
is  good  and  beautiful  in  man,  so  his  evils  and  falscs  are 
represented  in  all  that  is  wild,  fierce,  poisonous,  and 
destructive.  And  whenever  we  suffer  any  evil  to  become 
our  dominant  love,  its  representation,  however  loathsome 
it  may  be  to  the  natural  sight,  is  really  our  typ«J  of 
beauty,  and  we  seek  on  .all  occasions  to  transform  our- 
Belves  into  it.  To  my  mind  there  is  no  consequence  of 
evil  so  terrible  as  this.  The  fabled  furies  armed  vith 
a  whip  of  scorpions,  pursuing  the  guilty  soul,  is  nothing, 
to  becoming  the  embodiment  of  the  fury.  To  know  that 
we  Lave  changed  the  glorious  beauty  and  sweetness 
of  heaven  into  infernal  deformity — that  we  have  be- 


164  SPIRITUAL   BEAUTY. 

come  it,  and  that  we  must  for  ever  be  the  embodiment 
and  personification  of  that  lust  we  have  loved  and 
practised  here — this  is  the  hell  whose  terrors,  are  the 
luost  awful. 

But  I  gladly  turn  away  from  these  fearful  conse 
quences  of  loving  and  practising  evil,  to  those  sublime 
arid  beautiful  results  which  flow  from  the  operation  of 
the  same  law,  from  loving  and  living  the  good  and  the 
true.  It  is  often  said  that  virtue  is  its  own  reward,  and 
it  is,  in  the  same  sense  that  vice  is  its  own  punishment, 
and  a  much  greater  reward  than  the  mere  pleasure  that 
flows  from  its  exercise,  or  the  approbation  it  secures 
from  all  the  good.  By  the  love  of  goodness  we  become 
the  embodiment  of  it.  The  virtues  and  affections  are 
as  various  and  as  numerous  a$  human  souls,  and  what 
ever  affection  predominates,  the  soul  becomes  the  form 
and  type  of  that  affection.  It  is  modified  by  the  rela 
tive  strength  of  the  other  affections,  so  that  there  are 
no  two  affections  exactly  alike,  as  there  are  no  two  faces. 
Yet  the  dominant  love  gives  tone  and  character  to  all 
the  others,  and  appears  in  them  as  there  are  features 
and  expressions  common  to  families  and  nations.  We 
have  offered  to  us  then  this  reward  for  living  the  life 

O 

of  goodness.  We  shall  become  more  and  more  fully 
and  perfectly  the  form  of  that  good  we  love  and  do. 
Ev^ery  feature  of  the  face  will  be  moulded  into  its  beau 
ty  ;  every  expression  will  shine  with  its  affection.  It 
will  sparkle  and  glow  in  the  eyes;  it  will  play  in  every 
varying  form  about  the  lips ;  it  will  modulate  and  give 
the  sweetness  of  heavenly  harmony  to  every  tone  ;  it  will 
pervade  every  limb  and  organ,  and  sway  every  motion 


SPIRITUAL   BEAUTY. 


165 


to  gracefulness,  and  give  proportion,  symmetry,  and 
angelic  beauty  to  the  whole  form.  Go  where  we  will, 
on  earth,  in  the  world  of  spirits,  in  heaven  or  in  hell, 
we  shall  be  the  embodiment  and  type  of  that  affeciioii, 
and  all  its  winning  graces  and  attractive  loveliness  will 
play  through  us  and  flow  from  us.  As  light  from  the 
sun,  as  fragrance  from  the  flower,  so  will  the  sphere  of 
our  love  flow  from  us  and  communicate  itself  to  others, 
and  draw  all  of  a  concordant  affection  toward  us,  and 
bind  them  to  us  by  the  indissoluble  bonds  of  attractive 
sympathies. 

We  see  this  effect  of  a  life  of  goodness  and  truth 
even  here.  There  are  faces  that  we  love  to  look  upon, 
though  wasted  by  sickness  and  wrinkled  with  age.  The 
splendour  of  a  beautiful  soul  shines  through  the  crumb 
ling  walls  of  the  body,  and  the  sphere  of  innocence  and 
tried  virtue  flows  forth  as  delicious  fragrance  from  the 
heart.  Honesty  and  manly  firmness,  unswerving  integ 
rity,  bright  honour  or  tender  pity,  loving  trustfulness, 
delicate  sympathy,  white  innocence  in  manifold  forms 
and  graces,  shine  through  the  walls  of  day,  and  blend 
in  wondrous  beauty  in  the  material  face  and  form.  But 
the  most  that  we  can  see,  is  but  little  compared  with 
what  really  exists  within.  When  these  impedimenta 
are  removed,  our  affections  will  shine  forth  .n  their  true 
form  and  brightness.  "  Such  as  are  principled  in  mu 
tual  love  continually  advance  in  heaven  toward  the 
morning  of  youth,  and  the  more  thousands  of  years 
they  live,  the  more  nearly  they  attain  to  a  joyous  hnd 
delightful  spring,  and  so  on  to  eternity  with  fresh  incre 
ments  of  blessedness,  according  to  their  progress  and 


166  SPIRITUAL   BEAUTY. 

advancement  in  mutual  love,  charity,  and  faith,  until 
they  acquire  a  beauty  surpassing  all  description.  For 
it  is  the  nature  of  goodness  and  charity  to  form  and 
establish  their  own  image  in  such  persons,  causing  the 
delight  and  loveliness  of  charity  to  be  expressed  in 
eveiy  feature  of  the  face,  so  that  such  persons  become 
the  forms  of  charity  itself.  Such  is  the  living  form  of 
charity  as  beheld  in  heaven,  at  once  portrayed  by  and 
portraying  charity,  and  that  in  a  manner  so  expressive, 
that  the  whole  angel,  more  particularly  as  to  the  coun 
tenance,  appears  and  is  perceived  as  charity  itself.  This 
form  of  exquisite  beauty  affects  the  inmost  life  of  the 
mind  of  him  who  beholds  it  with  charity ;  and  by  the 
beauty  of  that  form  the  truths  of  faith  are  imaged 
forth,  and  thereby  rendered  perceptible.  Those  who 
have  lived  in  faith  towards  the  Lord,  that  is  in  faith 
grounded  in  charity,  become  such  forms  of  beauty  in 
another  life ;  all  the  angels  are  such  forms  with  infinite 
variety,  and  of  these  heaven  is  composed." 

Is  this  the  state  upon  which  our  friends  who  have 
already  gone  before  us  have  entered — our  children,  our 
wives,  and  husbands,  and  parents  ?  Is  this  the  state  we 
are  striving  to  lay  the  foundation  of  and  to  form  in  our 
selves  and  children  here  ?  We  are  all  striving  to  get 
something.  We  hasten  from  morning  till  night.  We 
level  the  hills,  fill  the  valleys,  and  bridge  the  ocean, 
and  embowel  the  earth,  to  get  something.  We  explore 
nature,  we  grasp  on  all  sides,  we  plant,  and  build,  and 
reap,  to  get  houses  and  lands  and  gold ;  we  study  by 
night  and  by  day,  and  plot  and  counterplot  that  we  may 
attain  social  and  political  station.  Why  not  strive  to 


DO    GOOD.  167 

be  something  ?  We  assume  virtues  for  an  end,  and  why 
not  make  it  our  end  to  be  the  virtue  ?  Then  our  come 
liness  will  not  be  the  glorious  beauty  of  the  fading 
flower.  Then  our  treasures  will  not  be  on  earth  but  in 
heaven.  We  shall  be  our  own  treasures,  and  carry  our 
own  riches  with  us.  This  is  the  highest  wisdom,  it  is 
the  only  wisdom.  This  is  the  sure  and  highest  reward 
of  goodness.  For  the  more  fully  we  become  the  forms 
of  the  goodness  and  truth  of  heaven,  the  more  fully  and 
orderly  and  blessed  will  be  our  reception  of  the  Divine 
Life ;  the  more  beautiful  we  shall  become  ourselves,  tho 
more  we  shall  communicate  to  others,  and  thus  again 
the  more  we  shall  receive.  Who,  in  view  of  such  con 
sequences,  will  not  make  his  life  the  prayer,  "  Let  the 
beauty  of  the  Lord  our  God  be  upon  us." 


DO  GOOD. 

Do  good  !  do  good  !  there's  ever  a  way, 

A  way  where  there's  ever  a  will ; 
Don't  wait  till  to-in  >rrow,  but  do  it  to-day, 

And  to-day  when  the  morrow  comes  still. 
If  you've  money,  you're  armed,  and  can  tind  work  enough 

In  every  street,  alley,  and  lane, 
If  you've  bread,  cast  it  off,  and  the  waters,  though  rough, 

Will  be  sure  and  return  it  again. 
Then  do  good,  do  good,  there's  ever  a  way, 

A  way  where  there's  ever  a  will ; 
Don't  wait  till  to-morrow,  but  do  it  to-day, 

Aud  to  day,  when  the  morrow  coincs,  still. 


168  OUR   DAILY   LIFE. 

If  you've  on.y  old  clothes,  an  old  bonnet  or  1 

A  kind  word,  or  a  smile  true  and  soft, 
In  the  name  of  a  brother  confer  it,  and  that 

Shall  be  counted  as  gold  up  aloft. 
God  careth  for  all,  and  his  glorious  sun 

Shines  alike  on  the  rich  and  the  poor; 
Be  thou  like  Him,  and  bless  every  one, 

And  thou'lt  be  rewarded,  sure. 
Then  do  good,  do  good,  there's  ever  a  way, 

A  way  where  there's  ever  a  will ; 
Don't  wait  till  to-morrow,  but  do  it  to-day, 

And  to-day,  when  the  morrow  comes,  still. 


OUR  DAILY   LIFE. 

THE  idea  is  very  general,  that  the  ordinary  duties  of 
life  are  not  favourable  to  the  highest  developments  of 
character ;  and  we  often  hear  it  said,  how  much  we  might 
learn,  and  how  much  good  we  might  do,  if  we  only  had 
the  leisure.  All  our  time  is  wasted  in  supplying  the 
ever-recurring  wants  of  the  body ;  those  low  animal 
wants,  the  eating  and  drinking  and  clothing.  We  ac 
complish  nothing.  It  is  like  pouring  water  into  the  sand. 
The  round  of  yesterday  is  the  round  of  to-day,  and  will 
be  the  round  of  to-morrow ;  and  thus  life  passes  ;  and, 
when  the  month  or  the  year  has  completed  its  circle,  we 
are  just  where  we  commenced  ;  we  have  nothing  to  show 
for  all  our  toil  and  care.  Who  has  not  felt  so  ?  and  who 
has  not,  at  some  time,  envied  those  who  seem  to  have 
the  leisure  to  cultivate  their  minds — to  help  forward 


OUR  t)AILY  LIFE.  Ifi9 

plans  of  public  and  general  interest?  Who  has  not 
wished  that  they  could  be  Howards,  or  Frys,  that  they 
might  devote  their  lives  to  the  welfare  of  their  fellows  ? 

And  then  again,  there  ia  a  deep-seated  feeling  that 
the  time,  strength,  and  thought  we  devote  to  these  tem 
poral  things  is  so  much  abstracted  from  the  spiritual  and 
eternal ;  and  thus  there  is  a  perpetual  conflict  between 
what  we  must  do  or  starve,  and  what  we  think  we  ought 
to  do ;  or,  in  common  phrase,  between  the  world  and 
God.  The  consequence  is,  we  perform  the  greater  part 
of  our  duties  as  slaves;  they  are  task-work  imposed 
upon  us  by  the  hardest  of  task-masters,  necessity  ;  and, 
what  is  still  worse,  we  divest  ourselves  of  the  very 
strength  which  we  need — motives  of  high  ends  ;  we  put 
off  our  heavenly  armour,  throw  away  our  weapons  of 
heavenly  temper,  and  descend  naked  and  nerveless  into 
the  conflict  with  low  cares,  strong  necessities,  animal 
wants,  and  desires. 

This  feeling  of  incompatibility  between  higher  and 
lower  duties,  has  no  doubt  led  thousands  to  leave  the 
common  duties  of  life,  and  give  themselves  up  to  seclu 
sion,  to  contemplation,  and  prayer.  But  all  these  mis« 
takes  are  founded  in  false  notions  of  religion,  of  the  real 
nature  of  natural  duties,  and  the  designs  of  Infinite 
Wisdom  in  making  them  necessities. 

We  are  planted  amidst  these  cares,  as  the  seed  is 
planted  in  the  ground ;  and  for  the  same  reason,  that  wo 
may  come  in  contact  with,  and  gain  access  to,  the  very 
materials  necessary  for  our  growth.  These  cares,  these 
common  duties  and  employments,  are  the  very  stuff  out 
of  which  the  web  of  life  is  woven;  and  the  analogy  he- 


170  OUR   DAILY   LIFE. 

tween  the  growth  of  the  seed  and  our  own  development 
is  most  perfect. 

Our  life  is  rooted  in  natural  things;  not  to  lie  dead 
and  buried  beneath  them,  but  to  grow  up  out  of  them, 
and  to  be  rendered  stable  and  abiding  by  them.  The 
geed  cannot  grow,  unless  it  is  planted ;  it  will  dry  up  or 
decay ;  neither  can  goodness,  unless  it  is  ultimated  in 
act.  One  may  weep  over  fictitious  woes,  and  indulge  in 
idle  fancies  of  what  they  would  do,  if  they  were  not 
bound  down  to  the  earth  by  burdens  and  cares.  But 
there  is  no  goodness  in  such  thoughts  and  visions ;  they 
never  bear  any  fruit. 

I  acknowledge  that  we  enslave  ourselves  unnecessarily. 
Vanity,  and  avarice,  and  pride,  and  ambition,  and  envy 
impose  burdens  upon  us,  and  make  slaves  of  us ;  rob  us 
of  our  strength,  our  time,  and  our  golden  opportunities. 
JBut,  after  making  all  due  allowances  for  these,  the 
principle  remains  the  same. 

If  the  Creator,  in  his  wisdom,  had  seen  fit,  He  might 
have  so  formed  us  that  we  should  need  no  clothing,  and 
no  food,  and  no  habitation  ;  but,  in  his  wisdom,  He  has  so 
formed  us,  and  placed  us  in  such  circumstances,  that  we 
need  all  of  these ;  and  our  highest  duties,  and  noblest 
life,  grow  out  of  these  very  necessities.  They  were  not 
inflicted  upon  us  as  a  curse,  or  a  punishment ;  but  they 
were  made  conditions  of  our  being,  that  they  might  be  • 
come  the  instruments  of  a  higher  life.  There  is  nothing 
in  them  incompatible  with  the  highest  culture,  and  the 
loftiest  attainments  in  spiritual  life.  Every  natural  use 
is  designed  to  be  the  basis  of  a  spiritual  use  which  is  to 
be  rooted  in  it,  and  grow  out  of  it ;  and  the  highest 


OUR   DAILY    LIFE.  171 

•wisdom  consists  in  changing  these  natural  things  into 
spiritual ;  in  making  our  common  duties,  our  every-day 
employments,  those  which  grow  out  of  the  wants  of  the 
body,  the  life  of  the  family,  the  church,  and  society,  of 
friendship,  and  the  relations  of  the  individual  to  com 
munities,  and  nations,  the  embodiment  of  heavenly  affec 
tions.  We  must  anoint  them  with  the  precious  ointment 
of  disinterested  love  ;  that  will  preserve  them  from  decay, 
inaugurate  them  into  new  life,  and  give  to  that  which  is 
fleeting  as  shadows,  and  which  seems  born  only  for  the 
present,  something  of  permanence  and  immortality. 

The  ancient  chemists  searched  long  for  the  philoso 
pher's  stone,  whose  magic  power  ^ould  change  the  baser 
metals  into  gold,  and  for  an  elixir  of  life,  which  would 
arrest  the  progress  of  decay  and  make  man  immortal. 
They  searched  long  and  laboriously  for  it ;  they  explored 
the  secrets  of  nature,  decomposed  and  compounded  her 
elements,  and  sought  far  and  near  for  that  which  lay 
within  them. 

This  unselfish  love  is  the  power  which  transmutes 
everything  into  gold,  and  distils  from  the  lowliest  uses 
the  very  elixir  of  life. 

Let  us  not  pass  this  by  as  a  mere  figure  of  speech,  for 
it  is  a  great  truth,  and  it  has  an  intimate  bearing  upon  the 
happiness  and  highest  well-being  of  all.  The  most  of 
our  time  is  necessarily  occupied  with  duties  which  seem 
temporary  arid  unrelated  to  our  highest  wants  and  aspira 
tions.  If  we  could  see  that  they  are  the  very  materials 
out  of  which  the  noblest  and  truest  life  is  built  up,  we 
should  all  be  more  contented  with  our  lot,  and  should 
use  the  opportunities  we  have  to  better  advantage.  We 


172  OUR    DAILY    LIFE. 

are  all  too  prone  to  overlook  or  undervalue  the  meana 
•we  have,  and  to  wish  for  some  great  occasions,  or  extra 
ordinary  opportunities.  Our  Heavenly  Father  has  not 
dispensed  his  favours  so  unequally  as  we  often  suppose ; 
as  He  has  furnished  air,  light,  and  water,  heat  and  food, 
the  great  elements  essential  to  our  physical  life,  in  such 
measures  and  forms  that  there  can  be  no  monopoly  of 
them  ;  so  he  has  given  to  us  the  means  necessary  to  lay 
the  foundation  and  commence  the  superstructure  of  our 
spiritual  life,  in  fuller  measure  than  we  often  think. 
There  is  no  useful  employment  that  does  not  afford  the 
means  and  opportunities  for  the  formation  of  a  virtuous 
and  excellent  character.  The  youth  of  either  sex,  whe 
ther  at  home  or  abroad,  at  school  or  at  a  trade,  as  a 
elerk  or  apprentice,  or  student  of  a  profession,  has  the 
means  of  forming  the  noblest  virtues. 

There  is  at  all  times  an  occasion  for  exact  truthful 
ness  and  fidelity,  the  foundation  of  all  the  virtues.  There 
are  difficulties  constantly  occurring  which  tax  the  patience 
and  perseverance,  and  which  call  forth  all  the  energies. 
There  are  unpleasant  duties  to  perform,  causes  of  irrita 
tion  and  trouble,  which  tax  our  adherence  to  principle 
and  self-control.  There  are  constant  opportunities  for 
the  exercise  of  forbearance,  kindness,  affection,  self-cul 
ture,  generosity,  self-denial,  modesty,  respect  to  superior  s, 
obedience,  true  loyalty,  and  indeed  the  whole  catalogue 
of  the  virtues. 

If  we  follow  the  youth,  until  he  has  entered  upon  the 
duties  of  adult  life,  we  find  the  materials  for  the  highest 
uses  more  abundant.  There  is  no  virtue  that  is  not 
called  into  requisition  in  the  family  circle.  In  the  mar- 


OUR   DAILY   LIFE.  173 

riage  relation,  there  is  room  for  the  exercise  of  every 
excellence  that  brightens  the  life  and  gives  zest  to  the 
happiness  of  the  highest  angel.  The  most  patient  for 
bearance,  the  gentlest  kindness,  the  strictest  justice,  the 
purest  innocence,  the  most  loyal  fidelity,  and  the  most 
unselfish  affection  ;  and  when  you  add  to  this  relation 
the  helplessness  of  infancy,  the  sweet  innocence  of  child 
hood,  where  is  there  a  more  favourable  condition  for  the 
exercise  of  the  noblest  qualities  of  man  or  woman  ?  It 
is  not  in  the  council  chamber,  or  senate,  or  executive 
chair  ;  it  is  not  as  leader  of  armies,  and  conqueror  or 
ruler  of  nations.  There  is  no  more  favourable  condition 
on  earth — no,  nor  in  heaven. 

But  these  relations  do  not  end  in  the  domestic  life. 
Each  family  is  linked  to  others.  There  are  social  duties 
of  a  more  general  nature,  which  call  for  their  appropriate 
virtues.  Besides,  there  is  the  business.  As  a  mechanic 
merchant,  or  labourer,  or  as  a  professional  man  ;  as  a 
competitor  in  the  arena  of  life  for  the  same  honours  or 
emoluments ;  as  the  master  and  employer ;  as  the 
builder  of  houses  and  engines,  and  all  manner  of  mechan 
ism  ;  as  the  artist  and  artisan  ;  as  a  buyer  and  seller — 
every  man  can  make  his  business  instrumental  to  the 
highest  ends  of  life. 

There  is  no  virtue  embraced  within  the  circle  of  God's 
requirements  which  we  all  may  not  find  occasion  to  prac 
tise  ;  and  to  confirm  the  principles  of  heavenly  life  by 
practice  is  the  very  object  for  which  we  live  in  the  natural 
world,  and  -are  slanted,  as  it  were,  in  the  soil  of  so  many 
duiies  and  cares.  Every  workshop,  and  store,  and  office, 
aud  domestic  hearth,  should  be  consecrated  to  ihese  high 


174  OUR   DAILY   LIFE. 

purposes ;  they  should  be  anointed  with  the  holy  oil  of 
love,  the  love  of  use;  and  thus  they  will  be  inaugurated 
into  a  higher  office,  and  will  become  the  representatives 
of  the  noblest  qualities,  and  be  the  instrumental  means 
of  attaining  them. 

So  long  as  we  look  to  ourselves,  in  our  relations  to 
others,  all  employments  become  service,  slavery.  Our 
domestic  relations  are  cares,  and  anxieties,  and  a  weary 
round  of  profitless  labour ;  our  daily  employments  are 
so  many  tasks,  imposed  upon  us  by  hard  necessity,  and 
•we  aim  to  avoid  them  as  much  as  possible.  Hence  so 
many  strive  to  gain  the  reward  without  performing  the 
labour;  and  he  who  receives  the  most  for  the  least 
service,  is  considered  the  most  fortunate ;  and  posses 
sion  is  deemed  the  real  good,  without  much  regard  to 
the  means  by  which  it  is  obtained.  But  possessions 
acquired  in  this  way  have  no  living  connexion  with  us ; 
they  are  but  dead  carcasses  which  have  not  been  em 
balmed,  and  they  will  return  to  dust. 

But  the  person  who  performs  his  duties  from  the  love 
of  being  useful  to  others,  anoints  them  with  the  precious 
spikenard,  and  changes  them  from  cares  and  anxieties, 
and  perplexities,  and  slavish  toil,  into  gifts  and  plea 
sures,  into  peace  and  rest,  into  strength  and  virtue,  and 
true  holiness. 

The  farm  and  workshop,  store  and  office,  and  domestic 
hearth  of  such  a  worker,  become  a  temple  consecrated 
to  the  holiest  uses,  and  he  himself,  though  covered  with 
the  smoke  of  the  forge,  or  hardened  and  soiled  with 
honest  industry,  a  priest  offering  acceptable  worship  to 
the  King  of  kings  and  Lord  of  lords.  The  very  instru- 


ANGELS    IN   THE   AIR.  175 

mcnts  of  his  labour  arc  changed  into  forms  of  spiritual 
beauty,  into  vessels  of  gold  and  silver,  fashioned  after 
the  similitude  of  heavenly  affections,  and  made  receptive 
of  their  life.  The  fleeting  is  changed  to  the  permanent, 
the  temporal  becomes  eternal,  and  the  mere  inanimate 
mutter,  the  dead  wood  and  stone,  and  merchandise,  are 
changed  into  living,  spiritual  substances.  Men  long  for 
immortality.  Here  it  is !  the  very  stuff  of  which  it  ia 
woven  is  strown  around  our  pathway,  thick  as  the  stones 
in  the  paved  streets.  Whatever  we  love  with  an  un 
selfish  affection  lives,  becomes  a  part  of  our  being,  and 
is  as  deathless  as  our  souls. 


ANGELS  IN  THE  AIR. 

by  the  remark  of  a  little  girl,  who,  observing  larga 
snow-flakes  falling,  exclaimed  to  her  sieter,  "Oh,  don't  hurt  them, 
Mary ;  there's  angels  in  them !"] 

DARK,  darker  grew  the  leaden  sky, 

The  wind  was  moaning  low, 
And,  shrouding  all  the  herbless  ground, 

Sad,  silently,  and  slow, 
Wending  from  heaven  its  weary  way 

Fell  the  white  flaked  snow. 

A  little  child  looked  wondering  on, 

As  larger  flakes  fell  near, 
And,  clutching  at  her  sister's  ham], 

Exclaimed  with  hushing  fear, 
**Oh  do  not,  Mary,  do  them  harm— 

There's  angels  iu  them,  dear  1" 


176  BLESSED   ARE   THE    MERCIFUL. 

"  'Twas,  but,"  say'st  thou,  "  a  child's  conceit,** 

But  ah,  the  lesson  prize — 
High  instinct  is  best  reasoning, 

The  pure  are  still  the  wise  : 
Man's  vaunted  head  what  poor  exchange 

For  childhood's  heart  and  eyes  1 

Things  are  to  us  as  we  to  them  ; 

Thought  is  but  feeling's  wing ; 
And  did  but  our  cold  withered  hearts 

To  earth  less  closely  cling, 
We  might  see  angels  everywhere, 

And  God  in  everything ! 


BLESSED  ARE  THE  MERCIFUL. 

I. 

ALL  was  still  in  the  deep  heart  of  the  coal 
The  throb  of  toilsome  life,  the  tumultuous  echoes  of 
harsh  voices,  the  thunder  of  iron  wheels  and  implements, 
was  hushed.  It  was  midnight ; — midnight  always  there, 
but  calmer  now. 

Under  a  great  chain  of  light,  which,  like  a  shining 
serpent,  curved  and  quivered  for  miles  away,  sat  two 
boy-watchers  in  the  dead  night.  They  rested,  in  a  half- 
embrace,  upon  the  ground,  the  arm  of  one  thrown  care 
lessly,  but  firmly,  around  the  other.  Dick  and  Boat- 
Bwain  were  fellow-workers  in  the  mines ;  born  in  ita 
dusky  bosom,  reared  under  the  influence  of  its  harsh 
theories,  bound  to  it,  body  and  soul,  by  their  stern  task 
master — Destiny  ;  they  had  never  beheld  God's  glorioua 


"Foamin1  over  queer  rocks." 


BLESSED   ARE   THE    MERCIFUL.  177 

sunlight,  never !  His  wide,  beautiful  world  was  only  a 
traditionary  tale  to  them. 

"  Tell  it  again,  Boatswain,  dear  Boatswain,  tell  it 
again,"  whispered  little  Dick,  looking  up  timidly  into 
the  bold  blue  eyes,  that  shone  above  him  with  a  clear, 
stern  light. 

Boatswain's  glance  rested,  for  a  moment,  upon  the 
childish  face  before  him.  Those  dark,  serene  eyes,  so 
like  sweet,  mournful  pictures ;  the  masses  of  tangled 
brown  hair,  making  a  shadowy  outline  about  those 
slender  features  ;  the  graceful  lips,  red  and  smiling,  were 
all  dear  images  to  him. 

Then,  in  his  calm,  flowing  voice,  he  related  what  Dick 
loved  so  well  to  hear,  and  what  he  had  visioned  many 
and  many  a  day. 

"  It's  like  another  country  lyin'  miles  and  miles,  over 
head  from  this,  with  high  mountains  leanin'  against  a 
great  blue  sky,  wider  an*  wider  than  you  could  ever 
dream  of.  Then  there's  rivers  a-dashin*  and  foamin' 
over  queer  rocks,  and  talkin',  for  ever  an'  ever,  about 
how  the  sunshine  is  a-rockin'  itself  to  sleep  in  oceans  of 
grass  and  flowers  (just  think  o'  that,  Dick  !),  that  goes 
quiverin'  and  throbbin'  from  mornin'  till  night,  like  a 
real  human  heart. 

"  And  then  there's  woods  that  makes  pleasant  shade, 
and  spreads  out  green  fingers  like,  to  hide  themselves. 
And  oh  !  ii  you  could  only  think  how  thousands  arid 
thousands  of  birds  pierces  thro'  and  thro*  them  green 
sort  of  fingers,  with  whistlin'  and  singin'  all  the  while. 
Then,  when  it  comes  night,  there's  the  moon  'stead  of 
the  sun,  hangin'  like  a  silver  basin  'way  up  high,  nnd 
12 


178  BLESSED    ARE    THE    MERCIFUL. 

makin'  a  grand  shine,  only  'taint  gold-like,  but  white 
you  know.  Oh  !  oh  !  Dick,  it's  that  that  crushes  me  ! 
To  think  how  it  must  be,  like  a  fine  glory,  up  there  now, 
and  we,  may-be,  never  to  see  it.  Never,  never,  Dick  !" 

Boatswain's  voice  had  fallen  to  a  whisper,  arid  his  blue 
eyes  shone  fiercely,  defiantly,  down.  Dick  clung  closer 
to  him,  the  tears  all  wet  on  his  cheeks,  and  trickling 
down  to  his  red  lips. 

"  Oh  !  don't,  Boatswain  :  you  promised  we  should  see 
it,  some  day,  the  beautiful  world." 

"Yes,"  replied  Boatswain,  with  terrible  vehemence, 
in  his  usually  calm  voice.  "  Yes,  we  shall  see  it." 

u  You  have  promised  ! — you  have  promised  !  And 
when,  with  God's  help,  you  get  out  of  this,  you  won't 
forget  me.  You  won't  forget  poor  Dick,  who  loves  you 
better  than  worlds  an'  worlds  put  together." 

Boatswain  half  raised  himself  on  one  arm,  and  gazed 
earnestly  upon  the  loving,  devoted  being,  beside  him, 
who  had  toiled  with  him,  suffered  with  him ; — who  now 
hoped  with  him. 

Then  Dick  heard  him  say,  in  a  voice  scarcely  audible 
from  emotion  and  passionate  tenderness — "Never!" 

II. 

# 
Boatswain  (they  called  him  that  in  the  mines,  because 

he  was  so  bold  and  cheery), — Boatswain  was  a  foundling. 
He  was  a  hardy  plant,  which  had  crept  up  in  the  stubble- 
field  of  life  ;  whose  brighter  flashes  of  colour,  and  gaudy 
aspect,  concealed  a  chill  and  wintry  heart  within.  Only 
one  drop  of  kindly  dew  ever  fell  into  its  rude  bosom,— 
only  one  gush  of  April  tenderness  ever  quickened  its 


BLESSED    ARE    THE    MERCIFUL.  179 

pulsations, — and  that  was  the  essence  of  poor  little 
Dick's  devotion. 

Shrill,  but  mellow,  was  the  whistle  that  roused  his 
young  companions  at  the  commencement  of  every  lamp- 
lit  day.  They  blessed  its  cheerful  sound,  and  obeyed 
its  summons  willingly,  though  it  awakened  them  to  toil 
again.  They  blessed  it  because  its  fresh  notes  aroused 
answering  chords  in  their  own  hearts,  not  quite  withered, 
not  quite  tuneless  yet. 

And  now,  as  weeks  rolled  by,  that  whistle  grew  bolder, 
sterner  than  ever ;  the  gay  blue  eyes  seemed  always 
looking  afar  off,  as  if  they  beheld  ever  in  the  dim  future, 
a  fixed  and  revealed  purpose.  Every  night,  when  all 
•vras  hushed,  a  dauntless  whisper  echoed  from  a  far  corner 
cf  the  wall, 

"  Are  you  there,  Dick?" 

Then,  when  they  were  seated  under  the  shining  lamps, 
Boatswain  would  say,  prophetically  :  "  I'll  tell  you  what, 
Dick,  it's  comin',  it  is.  'Tain't  half  so  far  off,  but  comes 
nearer, — so  near,  that  I  can  hear  foamin'  rivers  and  the 
wind  a-sweepin'  its  great  wings  over  the  grass.  Oh  I 
how  it  nods,  an'  rushes,  an'  roars  !  I've  laid  twenty- 
plans,  but  they  all  breaks  like  glass,  yet  I  know  it's 
comin',  I  feel  it  just  here." 

Boatswain  took  Dick's  hand  and  laid  it  on  his  sturdy 
breast,  where  it  remained,  fluttering  with  excitement, 
like  a  small  brown  bird. 

"  Boatswain,  how  grand  and  brave  you  are  !  Seems 
like  I  couldn't  ever  climb  up  such  a  great  way  that  lies 
'tween  you  and  me.  But  when  we're  out  of  this,  if  harm 
ever  comes  of  your  daring,  it'll  be  me  who'll  stand  by 


1 80  BLESSED   ARE   THE   MERCIFUL. 

you  till  the  last  drop  of  blood.  Then  maybe  the  great 
way  a-tween  us  might  grow  shorter  like  than  'tis  now." 

Boatswain  made  a  movement,  half-caressing,  half-im 
perious,  and  thought  how  short  the  way  was  between 
their  two  loves,  and  how  the  time  Dick  spoke  of  would 
never  come. 

"Hist!"  said  Boatswain,  impressively,  and  speaking 
very  low  ;  "  there'll  be  searching  for  us,  not  many  nights 
from  this.  Two  miles  from  this  wall  there's  an  old  shaft 
that  hasn't  been  worked  for  years  an'  years.  It's  so 
long  and  so  narrow  that  never  a  bit  of  light  dare  come 
only  to  the  edge  of  it.  I  never  saw  it,  Dick,  but  1 
dreamed  of  it,  and  I  could  find  it  in  the  dark,  I  tell  you. 
No  human  foot  ever  climbed  that  place — no  human  crea 
ture  dare  venture  it.  But  Tve  sworn  to  escape  that  way , 
I'll  dig  fast-holds  for  our  feet  and  hands,  my  boy.  Ha ! 
they'll  never  find  us  again." 

Dick  trembled,  and  shrank  away  instinctively  from  the 
strong  arm  embracing  him. 

"  Dick  !"  whispered  Boatswain  passionately,  "I'll  dare 
it  for  you  !  It'll  be  me  that'll  help  you,  or  die!" 

III. 

'Twas  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  the  late  moon  shone 
aslant  around  the  edges  of  an  old  shaft  belonging  to  the 
mines.  Thick  and  green  lay  the  long  leaves  over  it, 
tangled  with  a  red  mass  of  flowers.  Something  was  at 
work  below  where  the  moon  reached,  for  faint  noises  and 
low  whispers  murmured  underneath.  Two  dark,  climb 
ing  figures  made  their  way  slowly  but  steadily  towards 
the  li  -ht  above. 


BLESSED   ARE   THE    MERCIFUL.  181 

"Ho!  Dick!  Dick!"  cried  Boatswain,  half  aloud,  in 
*  voice  ti  enabling  with  terrible  emotion,  "  hurra!  we're 
almost  there  !  Do  you  see  that  white  shine,  glimmerin' 
and  winkin'  at  us?  That's  our  savin'  light,  I  tell  you] 
It's  the  blessed  moon's  light,  a-waitin'  for  us!" 

Dick  drew  in  his  breath,  and  felt  as  if  he  should  swoon 
away,  before  he  could  make  another  hold  in  the  shaft's 
side.  Then  he  felt  Boatswain's  strong  hand  supporting 
him,  and  lifting  him  higher,  where  he  could  see  the  white 
shine  plainer  above  him. 

But  suddenly  the  great  bell  of  the  mines  thundered 
below  them,  the  clang  of  iron  bars  and  the  muffled  tramp 
of  a  hundred  feet  came  upon  their  listening  ears. 

"Three  more!  only  three  more!"  almost  shrieked 
Boatswain,  "  oh,  Heaven  !  only  three  more,  and  we  are 


reeef  ever 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  that  heavy  tramp,  and  the 
clangirg  iron. 

"  Help  !  help  !  Boatswain,  dear  Boatswain,  oh,  help  ! 
You  promised  never  to  leave  me  —  never  to  forget  me. 
Oh,  I  am  going  !  Save  me  !  You  promised  —  you 
prom- 

Yes,  he  had  promised  ;  but  wasn't  the  moon  hanging 
out  of  the  sky  letting  its  glory  flood  over  his  face  —  and 
the  red  flowers  helping  those  green  fingers  of  leaves  to 
beckon  him  on  ?  Wasn't  the  beautiful,  new  world  spread 
out  before  him  ;  its  wide  arms  even  now  embracing  him  ? 

Still  the  wild  clinging  arms  hung  about  his  feet  with 
despairing  energy  ;  still  they  retarded  him  from  the  glory 
above,  for  the  coming  evil  below. 


182  BLESSED    ARE    THE    MERCIFUL. 

"  Boatswain  !  dear  Boatswain  !" 

"  Dick,"  answered  a  hoarse  voice,  deep  with  rage  and 
terror,  "  let  go,  I  tell  you  !  It's  too  late  now  ;  I  couldn't 
Bare  you  no  how.  Let  go  !" 

With  one  vigorous  movement,  he  shook  off  those  wild 
arms  ;  with  one  leap,  and  the  help  of  his  strong  arms,  he 
reached  the  top. 

He  was  no  longer  a  slave,  but  free  as  air ;  free  for  ever. 

Down,  down,  fell  that  slight  childish  form,  in  a  whirl 
wind  of  torn  red  flowers.  Down,  with  a  broken  heart, 
and  a  trust  as  rudely  shattered. 

All  mangled,  and  covered  with  blood,  his  limbs  quiver 
ing  in  agony,  lay  poor  little  Dick  at  the  bottom  of  the 
old  shaft.  The  white  shine  was  no  longer  visible  to  his 
sight,  but  he  could  distinguish,  far  above  him,  a  faint 
hurrah !  that  told  him  Boatswain  was  no  longer  a  slave. 
It  told  him,  with  its  jocund  voice,  that  faith,  and  truth, 
and  love,  were  all  merry,  merry  mockeries. 

The  heavy  tread  of  feet  drew  around  him,  and  a  group 
of  haggard,  hard  faces  crowded  over  him,  with  curious, 
cruel  eyes.  They  raised  him  in  their  arms  rudely,  with 
jeers  and  fierce  shouts  of  triumph.  They  put  the  peni 
tential  irons  on  his  slender  limbs,  wounded  and  bleeding 
as  they  were. 

But  he  bore  it  all  patiently,  only  turning  away  his 
head,  and  murmuring,  with  ashen  lips, 

"  Tears  like  I'd  clomb  so  high  up,  by  this  time,  'twan't 
such  a  long  way  a-tween  us,  after  all.  But,  oh  !  it  is  so 
lonesome  like,  up  here.  I'll  never  forgive  him.  I  swore 
it  bj  that  grand  white  shine,  I  did." 


RLESSED   ARE   THE   MERCIFUL.  183 

IV. 

Months  passed  away,  and  still  on  his  miserable  pallet, 
.under  the  gleaming  lights,  lay  poor,  helpless  Dick.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  though  a  hard,  bitter  spot  kept  deep 
ening  and  widening  in  his  heart.  The  serene  eyes  begun 
to  wear  a  severe,  dusky  look ;  the  pleasant,  trusting 
Bmile  had  all  faded  out  of  the  once  red  lips,  leaving  a 
grieved,  old  expression  there.  He  never  spoke  to  those 
around  him,  only  whispering  to  himself,  as  he  watched 
the  swinging  light, 

"Yes,  I'm  comin',  I  am,  one  of  these  days,  white 
shine.  Tell  him — it's  a  hard  word  when  I  says  it  of 
him — that  I  can't  forgive,  never.  Tell  him  how  the  red 
flowers  sickened  me,  a-lyin'  down  there,  all  bloody,  and 
how  I  takes  'em  up  and  presses  'em  on  this  hard  spot, 
just  here,  and  promises  never  to  forgive." 

"  Poor  child !  Poor  little  fellow !  What  are  you 
Baying  ?" 

The  pleasant,  sunshiny  voice  caused  Dick  to  turn,  sud- 
^nly,  in  its  direction. 

"Only  talkin'  to  the  white  shine,  sir,"  he  replied,  his 
fcj  -»s  fixed  upon  the  strange  figure  bending  beside  him. 
It  Deemed,  to  him,  to  wear  a  scarlet  cloak  which  flung 
out  a  glow  over  the  low  pallet.  But  it  was  only  the 
genial  beaming  of  a  benevolent  face  gazing  down  on  him. 

"  Better  pray,  child.  They  tell  me  you  have  rebelled, 
and  caused,  deservedly,  this  misery." 

"Oh!"  groaned  little  Dick,  with  his  hands  pressed 
over  the  bitter  spot,  "oh,  Boatswain,  Boatswain!" 

The  glow  of  the  scarlet  cloak  fell  closer  round  him ; 
be  felt  himself  raised,  tenderly,  and  lying  in  its  folds. 


184  BLESSED   ARE   THE    MERCIFUL. 

Dick  never  could  tell  afterward  how  it  happened  that, 
all  at  once,  the  hard,  bitter  spot  melted  quite  away  ;  ho* 
the  old  trust  came  rushing  into  its  place,  like  the  river 
Boatswain  talked  of ;  and  how  he  told,  with  lips  grown 
red  from  the  glow  of  the  scarlet  cloak,  his  sad,  sad  story. 

"  Dick,"  murmured  the  pleasant  voice,  made  rich  and 
soft  by  tenderness,  "  I  am  alone  in  the  wide  world,  as 
you  are,  my  poor  boy.  But  there's  wide  room  in  my 
heart  for  you  to  lie  within  it.  Will  you  go  with  me?" 

Three  days  after  that,  five  hundred  pounds  were  laid 
in  the  hard  palm  of  the  master  miner.  Three  days,  and 
Dick,  holding  fast  the  hand  of  his  deliverer,  under  shadow 
of  the  scarlet  cloak,  walked  out  into  the  world  of  blessed 
sunlight. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was  a-comin',  white  shine,  some 
o'  these  days?"  he  murmured,  looking  into  the  great  blue 
sky  above  him  ;  "  oh,  Boatswain,  it  appears  like  I  could 
most  forgive  you  now,  if  'twan't  for  the  smell  of  the  red 
flowers,  an'  the  promise  I  made  down  there." 

V. 

Bright  and  beautiful  looked  the  spring-time  sunlight 
into  Burleigh  Hall.  Mr.  Richard  Summerset  watched 
it,  falling  aslant  into  the  bosom  of  a  red  plant,  as  he  sat 
in  his  pleasant  library.  He  was  a  fine,  handsome  man, 
about  three-and-thirty,  with  serene  brown  eyes,  and  mel 
low-tinged  cheeks.  And  as  he  sat  thus,  intent  upon  his 
business  papers,  his  curved  lips  compressed  with  habitual 
determination,  his  muscular  form  expressive  of  firm  will 
in  the  right,  and  severe  power  in  the  wrong  of  life,  you 
could  scarce  recognise  trusting,  dependent  Dick  of  olden 
days 


BLESSED    ARE   THE    MERCIFUL.  185 

He  had  lately  returned  from  a  long  tour  across  the 
ecus ;  returned  to  find  his  benefactor  gone  to  his  home 
beyond  the  skies,  and  himself  heir  of  Burleigh.  The 
scarlet  cloak  had  fallen  upon  his  shoulders  now,  to  be 
borne  through  life  as  a  sacred  trust.  Its  still  folds  cov 
ered  him  closely,  save  that  one  place  in  his  heart  where 
the  hard,  bitter  spot  had  lain  of  yore.  There  its  gleam 
ing  fell  away,  faintly. 

Years  had  passed,  and  still  the  revengeful  feelings  held 
pre-eminent  sway  ;  still  Boatswain's  whereabouts  was  an 
unsolved  mystery.  Yet  Mr.  Richard  Summerset  never 
despaired,  for  he  had  sworn  a  solemn  vow,  and  that  vow 
he  should  fulfil. 

The  door  of  the  pleasant  library  opened,  and  a  man 
entered,  bearing  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

"Aha!  John,  what's  this?"  and  Mr.  Richard  turned 
over  the  red  seal,  which  bore  the  strange  device  of  a  half- 
moon. 

44  From  the  gentleman  of  the  Shires,  sir ;  his  gardener 
brought  it  over  last  night." 

Mr.  Richard  tore  open  the  letter,  and  read  this  brief 
sketch,  written  in  a  bold,  round  hand : 

"  To  the  Master  of  Burleigh  : 

I  have  read,  in  this  morning's  columns,  your  advertise 
ment  concerning  a  certain  man,  or  lad,  who  escaped, 
years  ago,  from  the  Brighampton  mines.  I  know  this 
man,  and  can  deliver  him  into  your  custody,  or  that  of 
the  parties  concerned.  With  your  permission,  I  will 
ride  to  Burleigh  on  the  20th. 
Yours,  &c. 

SHAFTESBURY  OF  THE  SHIRES." 


186  BLESSED   ARE   THE    MERCIFUL. 

"WhoM  this  gentleman  of  the  Shires?"  demanded 
Mr.  Richard,  suddenly,  looking  up,  with  a  hot  flush  on 
his  brow. 

"  A  fine,  honourable  sort  of  man,  sir.  He  used  to  be 
a  great  fav  mrite  with  old  Master  Geoffry,  in  days  past, 
•who  helped  him  along,  in  his  usual  way,  bless  him !  But 
times  change,  and  he's  grown  unfortunate,  they  say,  poor 
man  !  Perhaps  you  might  better  him,  Mr.  Richard,  sir," 
said  John,  with  a  little  sprinkle  of  feeling  in  his  voice; 
"  seeing  how  he  was  a  favourite  of  the  old  master.  You 
won't  forget  that,  Mr.  Richard?" 

u  No,  I  shall  not  forget  it,"  replied  Mr.  Richard,  briefly. 
"  You  may  go  now,  John.  A  fine,  honourable  man !"  he 
muttered,  between  his  closed  teeth ;  "  and  this  is  honour  !" 

VI. 

The  gentleman  of  the  Shires  was  ushered  to  the  thresh 
old  of  a  wide,  sunny  apartment  in  Burleigh  Hall.  As 
he  stood  there,  he  could  take  in,  at  a  glance,  its  quaint 
dimensions,  a  handsome,  benign  face  opposite  him,  arid 
particularly  a  strange  red  plant  flourishing  in  a  high 
window. 

Mr.  Richard  Summerset  arose  from  his  chair  with  a 
Budden  movement ;  he  received  his  guest  with  a  low 
bo w — So  profound  as  to  cause  a  painful  flush  to  come 
athwart  cheeks,  and  lips,  and  brow. 

The  man  before  him  was  of  stalwart  frame,  and  a  little 
past  the  meridian  of  manhood.  There  was  something 
haughty,  yet  noble,  in  the  bold,  restless  glance  of  his 
eyes.  Yet  the  wrinkles  around  lips  and  brow  told  how 
he  had  battled  with  the  world — perhaps  vainly. 


BLESSED  ARE  THE  MERCIFUL.  187 

"  I  am  indebted  to  my  advertisement  for  this  visit," 
said  Mr.  Richard,  in  a  strange,  husky  voice ;  "  are  you 
prepared  to  assert,  verbally,  what  you  have  here  writ 
ten  ?" 

lie  referred  to  the  red-sealed  letter  lying  beside  him. 

"  I  am,"  was  the  distinct  and  firm  reply. 

Mr.  Richard  shuddered  slightly,  but  continued — 

"  You  know  this  man  ;  you  are  willing  to  deprive  him 
of  what  seems  to  me  dearer  than  life  itself,  his  liberty?" 

The  gentleman  of  the  Shires  remained  proudly  silent, 
yet  his  face  blanched. 

"  You  are  aware,  too,  that  you  will  receive  a  reward  for 
this  deed?" 

'This  time  his  guest  nodded  imperatively,  and  a  light 
sprang  into  his  cold  blue  eyes. 

"  Ha  !"  cried  Mr.  Richard  Summerset  bitterly,  reach 
ing  out  for  a  handful  of  red  leaves,  which  he  crushed  in 
his  fingers.  "And  fora  few  pieces  of  glittering  gold— 
for  a  paltry  sum  of  this  red  metal,  you  will  barter  a  life 
time  !  A  living,  breathing  human  being  like  yourself;  a 
soul,  which,  however  base,  has  God's  own  seal  upon  it ! 
You  will  dare  to  do  this?" 

The  man  rose  from  his  seat,  crossing  over  calmly  to 
where  the  master  of  Burleigh  sat  in  his  severe  anger. 
lie  stood  before  him  with  a  proud  majesty. 

"Mr.  Richard  Summerset,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  firm, 
but  threaded  with  little  quivering  lines  of  emotion — "  I 
willy  I  do  dare  it !  I  have  a  young  wife,  whose  life  ia 
of  my  life,  whose  springtime  has  scarce  blossomed  into 
maturity.  Would  you  have  me  blight  its  fragrance  or 
\ts  be?uty?  I  have  a  child,  and  shall  I,  with  a  coward 


188  BLESSED  ARE  THE  MERCIFUL. 

heart,  press  upon  its  faint  existence  the  seal  of  Poverty? 
Never!  Tl  at  paltry  sum,  that  glittering  metal,  shall 
be  their  saving  providence.  I  bless  it !  I  bless  you, 
that  you  can  give  it  them  !" 

"And  yourself?"  murmured  Mr.  Richard,  breath 
lessly  ;  his  whole  face  melting  in  a  gush  of  awe — of 
admiration. 

"  I  am  that  man  I  and  have  I  not  the  right  to  barter 
my  own  existence  ;  my  own  living,  breathing  body  ?" 

His  head  dropped ;  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Ay !  toss  away  those  red  flowers,  Mr.  Richard  Sum 
merset  ;  crush  out  the  hard,  bitter  spot  from  your  heart 
for  ever ;  and  wipe  away  those  big  drops  coming  thick 
and  fast  into  your  eyes !  Have  you  ever — with  your 
wide  benevolence,  your  benign  justice — say,  have  you 
ever  dreamed  of  nobility  like  this  ? 

The  master  of  Burleigh  rose  out  of  his  chair  with 
faint  steps,  and  the  meekness  of  a  little  child.  He  laid 
his  hand  tenderly,  oh!  so  tenderly,  upon  the  man's 
shoulder. 

"  Boatswain !" 

"  Great  Heaven  !  little  Dick  !" 

"  Be  quiet,  Boatswain ;  don't  struggle,  don't  look  at 
me  so  with  your  wild  blue  eyes.  Listen  to  me.  For 
twenty  years  I  have  sought  for  you — for  twenty  years  I 
have  vowed  to  be  revenged.  I  shall  never  break  tluit 
oath." 

" Never!"  repeated  Boatswain,  with  his  proud,  firm 
voice.  "No,  never!" 

"  You  shall  suffer,  1  tell  you.     Your  wife  and  chilJ 


RUB   OR   RUST. 


ISo 


shall  feed  of  my  bounty— my  gold  shall  dower  them. 
And  you,  Boatswain 

The  wretched  man  groaned  aloud  in  Litter  ag.iny. 

"  Oh  !  you — shall  come  into  these  arms  a  fr  e  man  ! 
Your  proud  head  must  bow— to  rest  upon  m;  bosom. 
Stand  up,  Boatswain  !— be  a  man  !  and,  if  you  in  find 
room  in  your  noble  heart  for  such  as  I— forgive  ne  I" 

Mr.  Richard  Summerset's  voice  grew  thick  wi  .k  sobs, 
and  the  words  could  scarce  find  utterance. 

"  Bless  you !  bless  you  !  my  noble  Dick  !  my  "brave, 
brave  Dick  !  Bless  you  !" 

And  they  were  locked  in  each  other's  arms. 

Oh !  blessed  are  the  merciful ;  for  they  shaT 
mercy. 


RUB    OR    RUST. 

IDLER,  why  lie  down  to  die, 

Better  rub  than  rust. 
Hark !  the  lark  sings  in  the  sky— 

"  Die  when  die  thou  must ! 
Day  is  waking,  leaves  are  shaking, 

Better  rub  than  rust." 

In  the  grave  there's  sleep  enough— 

"  Better  rub  than  rust. 
Death,  perhaps,  is  hunger-proof, 

Die  when  die  thou  must ; 
Mon  are  mowing,  breezes  blowing, 

Better  rub  than  rust." 


TALE-TELLING. 


He  who  will  not  work,  shall  want; 

Nought  for  nought  is  just — 
Won't  do,  must  do,  when  he  can't; 

"  Better  rub  than  rust. 
Bees  are  flying,  sloth  is  dying, 

Better  rub  than  rust." 


TALE-TELLING. 

"  WHAT,  is  the  matter  with  you  to-night,  Anna  ?  Who's 
been  laying  a  straw  in  your  path  ?" 

*  I  wish  it  was  only  a  straw,"  answered  Mrs.  Maxwell, 
taking  up  her  husband's  half-playful  remark.  But  it'* 
worse  than  that — a  foreboding." 

"  Surely,  Anna,  you  would  not  dwell  on  a  silly  fancy 
as  long  as  you  have  been  musing  over  that  one  fashion 
plate— though  ladies  generally  are  supposed  to  find  food 
for  thought  in  those  enchanted  pages.  But,  I  happen 
to  know  that  you  have  your  cloak  and  bonnet,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing." 

"Well,  if  you  must  have  it— the  truth  is  this.  One 
of  these  faces  has  a  strong  resemblance  to  Susie  Lane, 
and  that  recalled  to  me  her  visit  this  afternoon ;  and, 
unfortunately,  Mrs.  Arnot  came  in." 

"  How  unfortunately  ?" 

"  Why  she's  been  wishing  to  make  her  acquaintance 
ever  since  we  have  been  so  intimate." 

"  So  much  the  better,  I  should  think." 

"Dear  Harry" — Mrs.  Maxwell  always  emphasized  the 


TALE-TELLING.  101 

adjective  when  she  wished  to  be  particularly  understood 
— "  you  don't  seem  to  see  that  I  did  not  wish  them  to 
meet." 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  selfish,  Anna,"  said  Mr.  Max 
well,  gravely.  u  I  thought  you  were  anxious  Mrs.  Arnot 
should  go  into  society  now  that  she  has  laid  aside  her 
mourning.  I  think  it  would  be  best  for  her  myself  " 

Mrs.  Maxwell  was  quiet  for  a  moment,  and  then  said, 
"  I'm  not  a  bit  jealous,  Harry ;  you  know  it's  not  at  all 
my  nature — and  I  really  can't  say  why  it  is,  but  I  dread 
something  unpleasant.  Perhaps  I  am  vexed  a  little  at 
the  eagerness  with  which  she  offered  to  improve  the 
opportunity.  Susie,  I  mean.  Almost  before  Angela 
was  seated,  she  said,  '  I  am  so  happy  to  meet  you  at 
last,  Mrs.  Arnot.  I  have  heard  so  much  of  you  from 
Mrs.  Maxwell.'  And,  then,  the  moment  it  could  de 
cently  be  said — she  begged,  on  the  strength  of  her 
intimacy  with  me,  that  Mrs.  Arnot  would  consider  her 
an  acquaintance." 

"  Well,  isn't  that  the  way  you  ladies  proceed  ?" 

"  Why,  as  Mrs.  Arnot  was  comparatively  a  stranger 
in  the  city,  it  was  right  enough  for  Susie  to  make  the 
first  advances.  Angela  had  nothing  left  but  to  ask  her 
to  call,  or  I  but  to  offer  to  go  with  her  some  day.  You 
need  not  shake  your  head,  Ilarry.  I  am  not  coveting 
to  keep  Mrs.  Arnot  all  to  myself." 

The  truth  was,  though  Mrs.  Maxwell  did  not  for  a 
moment  imagine  she  was  trying  to  deceive  her  husband, 
she  did  not  like  to  confess  to  him,  that  she  considered 
Miss  Susie  Lane  an  unsafe  acquaintance  to  introduce. 
Mr.  Maxwell  had  not  liked  their  own  intimacy  at  first,  and 


192  TALE-TELLING. 

she  was  afraid  of  reviving  old  prejudices,  which  she  had 
striven  so  zealously  to  conquer.  She  was  fascinated  by 
Miss  Lane's  good-natured,  sprightly  conversation.  She 
had  then  but  few  intimate  acquaintances  in  the  city,  and 
enjoyed  the  chatty,  lively  visits  Miss  Lane  was  lavish 
of.  She  felt  quite  lost  if  a  week  passed  without  one  of 
them.  Susie  was  so  amusing.  Told  a  story  capitally, 
always  knew  who  wras  engaged,  and  who  expected  to  be. 
What  was  worn  at  the  last  wedding,  and  how  it  happened 
that  the  Lawrences  and  Hathaways  did  not  speak.  A 
list  of  bridal  presents  at  any  reception  she  attended 
might  be  relied  on  as  accurate  enough  for  publication, 
and  if  an  engagement  was  broken  off,  the  next  time  you 
saw  Miss  Lane,  you  had  the  reasons  in  full.  Yet  there 
was  nothing  vulgar,  or  impertinent  in  it  all,  apparently. 
Nothing  but  a  good-natured  wish  to  make  her  conversa 
tion  and  society  agreeable.  "Besides,  it  was  only  natural 
Susie  should  know  everything  that  was  going  on,"  Mrs. 
Maxwell  once  had  urged  with  her  husband.  "  She  had 
such  a  large  circle  of  acquaintances,  was  sought  by  every 
one,  and  with  her  time  and  income  at  her  own  disposal." 
No  one  would  dream  of  calling  Miss  Lane  an  "  old  maid," 
but  certainly  she  was  an  passee,  with  very  small  hands 
and  feet,  good  teeth,  bright  eyes,  and  an  ever  ready 
smile,  to  keep  her  account  in  the  social  current. 

No  one  ever  heard  her  say  an  absolutely  ill-natured 
thing ;  if  she  mimicked  an  unfortunate  peculiarity,  she 
was  sure  to  excuse  the  very  defect  a  moment  after,  in 
the  blandest  possible  manner ;  and  if,  after  she  had 
gone,  you  felt  uncomfortable,  and  some  sensitive  point 


TALE-TELLING.  103 

burned  and  smarted,  you  could  not  trace  back  the  sting, 
or  the  precise  moment  it  was  received. 

Nothing  more  was  said  by  Mr.  Maxwell  about  his 
wife's  pre-occupation,  but  he  noticed  that  when  he 
arranged  the  chess-board  a  few  moments  afterwards, 
her  opening  moves  lacked  a  purpose,  and  as  the  game 
proceeded,  she  grew  positively  careless.  So  he  very 
quietly  set  away  the  stand,  and  offered  to  read  aloud 
the  latest  number  of  the  Caxtons,  thoughtful  husband 
that  he  was ;  in  a  little  time  her  eyes  lighted  with  inte 
rest  at  its  clever  witticisms,  and  the  cloud  passed  away. 

A  close  acquaintance  of  more  than  a  year  had  deep 
ened  the  friendship  between  Mrs.  Maxwell  and  Mrs. 
Arnot,  so  romantically  conceived,  and  sadly  brought 
%bout.  They  had  many  tastes  and  pursuits  in  common, 
could  see  much  of  each  other  from  the  neighbourhood 
jf  their  dwellings,  and  almost  came  to  supply  the  place 
of  sisters  to  each  other.  In  the  notes  which  often  bore 
messages  between  them,  they  did  not  write  "  darling 
Angela,"  or,  "  my  sweetest  Anna,"  nor  did  they  kiss 
at  the  street  corners  through  veils,  or,  indeed,  any  time 
they  met  and  parted,  as  many  ladies  make  a  point  of 
doing  with  common  acquaintances  ;  a  practice,  by  the 
way,  so  universal,  that  it  has  lost  all  significance  ;  so 
much  so,  that  for  ourselves,  we  prize  a  cordial  grasp  of 
the  hand,  and  a  smile,  far  more  than  "  lip  service" 
shared  in  common  with  the  merest  acquaintance. 

Our  friends  had  often  spoken  of  this,  and  the  conver 
sation  was  renewed  one  morning  which  they  were  pass- 
ing  together,  each  employed  with  the  needle,  in  Mrs. 
Arnot's  pretty  dressing-room.  It  was  just  the  time  and 
in 


104 


TALE-TELLING. 


place  for  a  confidential  chat.  "  One  of  Mrs.  Maxwell  3 
days,"  Mrs.  Arnot  always  said,  for  with  her  country 
habit  of  exposure  Mrs.  Maxwell  did  not  mind  a  little 
rain,  and  liked  to  pass  the  morning  in  Pine  Street  best, 
where  they  were  thus  secured  from  all  intruders.  The 
storm  had  increased  since  her  arrival,  so  that  the  thick 
mist  had  become  a  heavy  shower,  that  pattered  against 
the  window  near  which  their  sewing-chairs  were  drawn, 
Berving  to  make  the  cheerful  fire  in  the  grate  all  the 
brighter  by  contrast.  One  loves  to  draw  close  to  the 
grate  on  such  a  day,  if  solitary,  and,  buried  in  a  loung- 
ing-chair,  muse  at  the  fantastic  shapes  of  the  glaring 
coals,  or  the  brightness  of  the  flickering  flame,  while  a 
book  lies  half  closed  over  the  hand,  and  seems  at  once 
as  a  suggestion  and  excuse  for  the  revery.  Or  better 
still,  with  a  companion  entirely  agreeably,  home  assumes 
its  most  homelike  air,  and  our  ordinary  comforts  seem 
magnified  into  blessings. 

Something  of  this  the  friends  had  been  saying,  and 
then  the  subject  turned  from  the  dear  inner  circle,  to 
the  broader  band  of  social  relations,  and  how  much, 
after  all,  there  was  in  pleasant  acquaintances. 

"  I  am  just  beginning  to  realize,"  Mrs.  Maxwell  said, 
"how  much  there  is  in  the  word  friend.  From  the  time 
I  was  first  sent  to  school,  I  had  a  habit  of  making  violent 
friendships — as  my  sister  Mary  used  to  call  them.  Yet 
I  never  could  define  to  my  mother  why  I  liked  those 
intimates  very  satisfactorily,  to  her  at  least.  I  was 
laughed  at  all  one  winter,  for  saying,  when  once  fairly 
cornered,  "  Well,  I  do  like  Maggie  Robinson — because — 


TALE-TELLING.  195 

because  she  lias  brown  hair,  and  wears  such  a  beautiful 
pink  mousselinf  ?" 

Mrs.  Arnot  smiled.  "  Quite  as  sensible  as  many 
reasons  that  grown  up  children  give,"  said  she;  ''and 
perfectly  natural,  as  I  remember  by  my  own  experience. 
But  I  was  somewhat  different.  I  did  not  care  about 
being  loved  or  loving  my  school-mates  particularly,  only 
I  liked  popularity.  To  be  the  head  of  everything, 
admired  not  loved,  I  did  not  care  how  many  were  afraid 
of  me,  so  I  sat  at  the  head  of  the  class,  and  was  praised 
by  the  teachers." 

"  You  are  entirely  candid,  Angela." 

"  Yes,  for  my  fault  has  been  one  of  a  lifetime,  and  I 
have  learned  from  bitter  experience  that  to  be  loved  is 
better  than  all  praise." 

u  I  was  going  to  tell  you  of  my  many  friendships,"  con 
tinued  Mrs.  Maxwell.  "  It  was  a  rule  at  our  school  that 
all  the  upper  classes  should  keep  journals,  and  I  have 
mine  from  the  time  I  was  eleven  ;  how  you  would  laugh 
over  those  poor  little  sentimental,  ridiculous  entries ! 
Sometimes,  such  a  day  as  this,  I  get  them  out,  and  look 
them  over.  But  with  all  their  folly,  they  often  bring 
tears.  There  are  so  many  traces  of  those  childish  days 
— names  scrawled  in  pencil  on  the  margin;  autographs 
of  class-mates  I  have  never  seen  since;  profiles,  half- 
and-half  caricature,  in  pen  and  ink.  Why  the  very 
change  in  the  handwriting  is  sad,  and  it  is  so  curious  to 
trace  all  the  elements  of  character  which  I  now  possess, 
to  that  day  of  small  things." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  those  relics." 

"Ah,  me!  I'm  afraid  they're  like  love-letters,  of  no 


19£  TALE-TELLING. 

use  to  any  but  the  owner,  Angela ;"  Mrs.  Maxwell  spoLe 
half-playfully,  half-tearfully,  for  her  lips  quivered,  though 
her  eyes  still  smiled.  "  There  could  be  nothing  parti 
cularly  amusing  to  you  in  such  an  entry  as  this  : — 

"  Walked  up  street  with  Annie  Moore  and  Susan 
Leslie,  after  school ;  Annie  is  such  a  dear  girl,  and 
brought  me  those  worsteds  to  finish  my  lamp  mat.  We 
met  Willie  Gibbons,  whose  face  looked  very  red,  when 
he  stopped  to  talk  with  us  a  moment.  He  had  a  pond 
lily  in  his  hand,  which  he  gave  to  Annie,  but  the  stem 
was  almost  twisted  off." 

It  was  so  natural  and  child-like !  Mrs.  Maxwell  en 
joyed  it  particularly. 

"  As  I  said,  it  can't  be  very  interesting  to  you,  but  to 
me  it  recalls  those  little  lovers,  she  in  a  sun-bonnet,  and 
he  in  a  linen  roundabout  and  broad-leaved  straw  hat, 
and  then  I  think  how  it  has  all  come  to  pass,  just  like  a 
story-book,  and  they  are  married  now,  and  I  often  laugh 
at  them  about  those  very  walks. 

"  Well,  this  journal  with  all  its  scribblings,  and 
French  phrases  spelled  in  a  most  anglicized  style,  and 
little  conceited  entries  of  all  sorts,  bears  record  to  a 
vast  number  of  friendships  that  did  not  last  half  as  long 
as  the  journal  has.  Sometimes  we  quarrelled  about 
things  as  trivial  as  a  credit-mark.  Then  I  would  find 
that  I  had  wasted  all  my  pocket-money  and  kisses  on  a 
really  treacherous  girl,  but  somehow  I  did  not  grow  any 
wiser." 

"I  don't  believe  you  over  retaliated,  Anna." 

"  I  suspect  I  did,  and  made  faces,  and  *  said  things,' 
with  the  best  of  them.  Or  the  worst  rather.  So  in 


TALE-TELLING.  1&7 

vacations  I  often  went  away  on  long  visits,,  i.c.L  /.ways 
came  home  in  an  ecstasy  with  some  one  I  kad  met.  I 
remember  one  return,  bounding  into  the  room  where 
Mary  was,  and  commencing  my  travels  before  I  took 
my  bonnet  off.  '  Oh,  Mary,'  I  said,  *  I've  had  such  an 
elegant  time,  and  I've  made  so  many  friends."' 

"  Acquaintances,"  said  Mary,  correcting  me  in  hei 
quiet  way. 

u  '  No,  friends,'  I  still  insisted,  for  I  had  not  yet 
learned  that  there  is  a  vast  difference  between  the 
two." 

"  You  learn  that  soon  enough  in  a  large  city,"  said 
Mrs.  Arriot.  "  Do  you  know  I  shudder  sometimes  when 
I  look  back  upon  those  dreary  thankless  days,  when  I 
shut  out  all  human  sympathy,  even  Robert's :  for  it 
grieved  him  that  I  could  not  admit  any  love  but  his 
own.  But  I  was  punished  for  it,  that  terrible  night.  I 
remember  when  that  faint-sinking  came,  as  I  was  watch 
ing  alone  with  my  poor  little  Ernest,  praying  in  my 
heart  for  some  one  to  comfort  me,  I  was  so  utterly 
lonely  !  It  was  then  the  thought  of  your  proffered 
kindness  flashed  upon  me,  and  I  hardly  remember  how 
or  when  I  sent  for  you.  But  you  came — like  an  angel 
of  mercy — dear  Anna  /"  and  Mis.  Arnot  "aid  her  hand 
on  her  friend's,  and  half  closed  her  eyes  to  keep  dim  tho 
rising  tears  brought  by  this  bitter  recollection. 

"  We  shall  ahvags  be  friends,"  Mrs.  Maxwell  said. 

"  Yes,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word.  We  do  not 
think  when  we  are  younger  how  many  elements  enter 
into  such  a  relation.  I  could  never  love  any  one,  or 
call  any  one  friend,  that  I  did  not  first  respect,  in  word, 


198  TALE-TELLING 

deed,  and  thought.  Yes,  we  shall  always  be  friends,  I 
am  sure." 

Mrs.  Maxwell  could  not  trace  the  influence,  but  as 
this  was  said,  a  sad  and  heavy  feeling  came  over  her; 
perhaps  it  was  the  earnestness  with  which  Mrs.  Arnot 
had  spoken.  She  tried  to  shake  it  off. 

"  This  is  very  different  from  those  vows  of  eternal 
friendship,  young  ladies  make,"  she  said.  "When  I 
left  school  I  had  seventeen  correspondents  !  Papa  used 
to  say  I  ought  to  have  a  letter-box  of  my  own  at  the 
Post-Office.  I  keep  up  just  one,  of  the  seventeen  now. 
I  do  not  even  know  where  half  of  them  are  at  the  pre 
sent  moment.  One  loses  sight  of  school-mates  so  easily, 
particularly  if  we  have  no  better  reason  for  loving  them 
than  that  they  wore  pink  mousselines!" 

"  Did  you  ever  have  a  real  quarrel  with  any  one  you 
truly  loved  ?" 

"  Never,  in  my  life.  I  used  to  have  so  many  all  on 
the  same  terms  that  I  never  minded  a  little  fuss.  If 
the  acquaintance  was  broken  off,  well  and  good.  There 
were  twenty  more  agreeable  people." 

"I  am  very  peculiar  about  that,"  said  Mrs.  Arnot. 
"  I  don't  believe  I  coftld  ever  '  make  up'— -as  some  peo 
ple  do.  If  I  should  once  be  seriously  offended,  I  don't 
think  I  could  ever  feel  the  same  towards  a  person  again ; 
even  my  very  best  friend." 

"  You  go  on  the  principle  then  that  friendship  is  like 
a  Venice  glass — once  shattered  never  to  be  restored." 

"  Exactly.  But  how  very  solemn  and  philosophical 
we  are  growing !  I'm  afraid  Robert  would  think  us 
sentimental  after  all,  if  he  should  hear  our  disquisi- 


TALE-TELLING.  199 

tions.  What  pleasant  mornings  we  do  have,  Anna ! 
I  wonder — by  the  way,  I  met  Mrs.  Le  Grand  yesterday 
— I  was  going  to  say,  I  wonder  if  she. enjoys  her  visiting 
and  shopping  expeditions,  half  as  much  as  we  do  these 
home  talks." 

It  was  perfectly  natural  that  Mrs.  Maxwell  should 
think  over  this  conversation  on  her  return  home,  and 
speak  of  it  to  her  husband.  He  was  always  ready  to 
discuss  whatever  interested  her,  not  like  many  hus 
bands  we  have  known,  whose  evenings  are  shadowed  by 
the  "  burden  and  heat  of  the  day,"  and  have  neither 
time  nor  spirits  to  interest  themselves  in  what  they  con 
sider  trivial  matters.  It  is  this  lack  of  sympathy  often 
times  that  becomes  a  slow  process  of  heart-starvation, 
if  we  may  use  the  term,  and  these  little  troubles  and 
interests  are  confided  to  an  injudicious  acquaintance,  or 
locked  up  to  become  bitter  thoughts,  and  bring  that 
wan  spiritless  look  to  the  face,  which  distinguishes  SQ 
many  married  women.  As  we  have  before  said^-thrice 
happy  is  she  who  finds  a  judicious,  thoughtful  friend,  at 
her  own  fireside. 

"  I  love  her  better  every  time  I  see  her,"  she  ex 
claimed  enthusiastically  of  Mrs.  Arnot;  "arid  indeed 
she  is  perfectly  right.  I  don't  see  how  we  could  ever 
be  separated." 

Yet  it  was  only  on  her  next  visit  that  she  fancied 
Mrs.  Arnot  received  her  less  warmly  than  usual.  Per 
haps  it  was  thinking  so  often  of  their  last  conversation, 
she  had  expected  too  much.  Mrs.  Arnot  was  not  very 
demonstrative  usually.  But  take  it  altogether,  she  felt 


200  TALE-TELLING. 

chilled,  and  uncomfortable,  and  did  not  take  out  hex 
knitting  as  she  had  intended  to  do. 

Two  or  three  days  passed  before  the  visit  was  returned. 
That  was  not  unusual,  but  there  seemed  no  excuse,  and 
Mrs.  Arnot's  manner  implied  one  was  expected.     Mr. 
Maxwell  came  home  early,  and  pressed  her  to  stay  the 
evening,  saying  that  he  would  send  for  her  husband  as 
they  often  did,  but  she  declined.     It  was  certainly  very 
strange,  so  soon  after  their  perfect  understanding.    Then 
they  met  at  the  house  of  a  mutual  acquaintance.     Mrs. 
Maxwell  scarcely  knew  how  to  approach  Angela,  and 
this  irresolution  brought  out   something   like  positive 
coldness  on  Mrs.  Arnot's  part.     So  Mrs.  Maxwell  felt, 
and  even  her  friend  remarked  it.     This  was  saddest  of 
all,  for  there  had  been  some  little  jealousy  among  the 
ladies  of  her  circle,  at  the  close  intimacy  she  had  formed 
where  they  had  not  been  received.     There  were   not 
•wanting  curious  eyes  to  note  the  diiference,  nor  tongues 
to  "stir  up  strife."     Mrs.  Maxwell  came  home  grieved 
to  the  very  heart,  and  cried  bitterly,  with  a  feeling  of 
despondency  she  was  quite  ashamed  of.    She  was  almost 
resolved  to  ask  an  explanation,  but  she  hesitated  to  do 
so,  lest  there  really  might  be  no  change,  and  Angela 
would  think  her  jealous,  or  exacting.     Still  worse,  she 
dreaded  an  open  disagreement,  for  she  could  not  forget 
what  had  been  said  about  the  Venice  glass.     Besides 
these  reasons,  the  next  time  she  called,  Mrs.  Arnot's 
manner  was  just  the  same  as  ever.     She  seemed  very 
e;lad  to  see  her,  was  even  more  kind  than  usual,  and 
Mrs.  Maxwell  came  home  persuading  herself  that  she 
had  fancied  the  change  entirely. 


TALE-TELLING.  201 

Wo  cannot  trace  the  coldness  that  eventually  sprung 
up,  through  all  its  shades  and  gradations.  Coldness 
there  was,  though  courtesy  was  never  wanting  in  Mrs. 
Arnot's  manner.  It  was  like  a  still  frosty  air,  the  more 
piercing  for  its  very  quietness.  Mrs.  Maxwell  was  made 
miserable  by  it,  for  she  had  never  known  before  how 
much  she  loved  her.  But  she  was  not  conscious  of  any 
offence,  and  strove  to  conceal  even  from  herself  how 
much  she  was  pained.  It  was  a  sudden  impulse  of  the 
old  friendliness,  which  induced  her  one  morning  in  early 
summer — for  months  of  guarded  intercourse  had  passed 
— to  select  some  unusually  fine  strawberries  that  had 
been  sent  her  directly  from  the  country,  and  arrange 
them  with  leaves,  in  a  pretty  basket,  that  gave  them 
the  most  tempting  air  imaginable,  and  take  them  her 
self  to  Mrs.  Arnot.  Fruit,  flowers,  arid  books,  had 
been  the  principal  gifts  exchanged  between  them,  and 
she  felt  almost  happy  again,  as  she  eagerly  entered  the 
parlour  at  Mrs.  Arnot's.  Formerly  she  had  ushered 
herself  up  to  the  little  sitting-room,  but  this  had  been 
dropped  tacitly  for  some  time.  Still  it  was  rather  cool 
ing  to  her  enthusiasm  to  be  told  "  Mrs.  Arnot  was 
engaged,  but  would  be  down  directly;"  and  wait  minute 
after  minute  in  the  darkened  room,  as  formal  and  unin 
teresting  as  city  parlours  usually  are  in  their  summer 
suit  of  brown  Holland,  and  net  laces.  Her  spirits  fell 
considerably,  and  when  the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Arnot 
actually  came,  do  all  she  could  her  greeting  was  c  m- 
strained  and  her  offering  formal. 

O 

"I  knew  you  would  excuse  it,"  Mrs.  Arnot  said, 
drawing  on  her  gloves  as  she  spoke,  u  but  I  have  an 


202  TALE-TELLING. 

engagement  I  cannot  possibly  break:   and  I  the  ugh  t, 
perhaps,  you  would  walk  with  me." 

So  a  servant  was  summoned,  the  basket  given  in 
charge,  and  the  two  went  out  together.  They  walked 
several  squares,  conversing  on  the  leading  topics  of  the 
day  ;  spoke  of  the  beauty  of  the  squares,  the  last  fash 
ion  for  bonnets,  and  the  marriage  of  a  mutual  acquaint 
ance.  Oh,  how  different  from  the  many  pleasant  walks 
of  days  gone  by,  when  "  they  talked  truly  upon  all 
things — substance — shadows — variations  of  thought  and 
feeling — all  that  interested  them  most  deeply  in  human 
love,  or  a  diviner  influence.  And  so  they  parted,  while 
Mrs.  Arnot  said, 

"  You  come  so  seldom  lately.  I  am  sorry  I  waa 
obliged  to  go  out  to-day." 

Mrs.  Maxwell  drew  close  her  veil  the  instant  she  was 
out  of  sight.  Her  warm,  affectionate  nature  had  been 
cruelly  wounded. 

"  I  cannot  bear  it  any  longer,  Harry,  indeed  I  can 
not,"  she  said  to  her  best  counsellor,  who  saw  the  traces 
of  tears  when  he  came  at  nightfall  to  be  made  happy  at 
home ;  and  then  she  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and 
sobbed,  those  long,  grieving  sobs,  like  a  frightened 
child. 

"You  think  too  much  of  it,  Anna,"  he  answered, 
soothingly.  "  You  have  had  friends  before  and  lest 
them  without  half  this  feeling.  I  am  afraid  my  wife  is 
romantic,  after  all." 

"  No,  dear,  you  are  mistaken.  My  regard  for  her  wa3 
above  all  romance.  She  united  so  many  lovable  ele 
ments  of  character,  and  besides  I  am  grieved  for  the 


TALE-TELLING.  203 

very  principle  involved.  She  herself  gave  me  the  assur 
ance  that  nothing  could  part  us.  She  has  always  spoken 
of  her  gratitude,  though  I  have  only  followed  the  dic 
tates  of  humanity  by  going  to  her  ;  but  it  bound  us  to 
gether,  you  can  see ;  and  I  am  afraid  it  will  shake  my 
faith  in  human  nature,  Harry,  if  she  has  deceived  me." 

"  Listen,"  said  Mr.  Maxwell,  more  seriously.  "You 
are  not  content  to  give  her  up  entirely.  You  feel  that 
you  have  been  wronged.  Why  not  ask  an  explanation 
at  once  ?  If  you  cannot  be  reconciled,  it  is  better  to 
give  up  the  acquaintance  at  once." 

"  But  I  have  never  done  anything  to  offend  her,  and 
it  would  be  so  hard  to  give  her  up.  To  go  by  the  win 
dows  I  have  always  looked  up  to  so  eagerly,  turning  rny 
face  away — and  those  books  that  I  love  so  well,  to  put 
them  away — there  are  twenty  things  to  remind  me  of 
her  every  day  !  It  would  be  worse  than  her  death — a 
living  death,  Harry." 

Mr.  Maxwell  scarcely  knew  what  to  say.  A  coldness 
between  himself  and  Mr.  Arnot  had  been  the  natural 
result  of  affairs,  and  he  had  often  felt  unpleasantly  at 
the  daily  contact  it  was  impossible  to  avoid.  They  often 
came  up  in  the  same  omnibus,  or  walked  squares  home 
ward,  with  mere  monosyllables  of  commonplace.  It 
was  unpleasant  in  any  point  of  view.  He  rather  urged 
an  explanation,  but  still  left  it  entirely  to  his  wife'? 
judgment. 

It  came  at  last.  Mrs.  Maxwell  had  loved  her  friend 
too  well  to  let  pride  seal  her  lips  any  longer.  She  went 
to  Mrs  Arnot  with  a  deliberate  purpose  to  win  her  back, 
or  seal  up  the  past,  as  a  pleasant  dream  with  a  sad 


204  TALE-TELLING. 

awaking  It  was  a  conscience  pure  from  any  known 
offence,  and  this  still  humble  resolve,  that  carried  her 
through  the  painful  introduction  of  the  subject,  and  th« 
pang  of  pain  she  felt  when  Mrs.  Arnot  coldly  answered, 

"  An  explanation  she  had  avoided.  It  could  only 
bring  pain  to  both,  and  she  had  long  since  been  con 
vinced  they  could  never  be  friends." 

u  I  was  so  mistaken  in  you,  Anna,  and  I  shall  never 
trust  another  as  I  have  done  you." 

"But  is  it  fair  to  condemn  me  without  a  hearing?" 

A  flush  of  wounded  pride  passed  over  Mrs.  Arnot's 
face.  "  It  is  all  too  evident  to  need  proof." 

One  less  gentle  than  Mrs.  Maxwell,  or  less  steadily 
resolved  to  "  bear  all  and  suffer  all,"  if  she  had  really 
offended,  to  win  back  her  friend,  could  not  have  listened 
again  to  that  cold,  calm  voice,  or  would  at  least  have 
met  the  proud  glance  with  one  equally  disdainful.  But 
Mrs.  Maxwell  knew  the  ruling  passion  had  for  a  mo 
ment  the  mastery,  and  only  answered,  still  gently, 

"  I  must  insist,  for  my  own  sake,  and  in  memory  of 
the  past,  that  you  tell  me  my  offence.  That  it  is  light 
I  am  certain." 

"  Oh,  Anna — light !  Light  to  say  that  I  had  an  un 
loved  home !  Light  to  slander  my  noble,  kindest  of 
husbands  into  torturing  my  confidence,  while  you  pro 
fessed  the  sincerest  regard  for  me.  Anna,  I  solemnly 
tell  you  I  never  was  so  deceived  in  a  human  being ! — 
ani,  when  I  thought  you  so  good  and  pure,  and  that 
you  were  leading  me  to  a  higher  life !" 

The  truth  flashed  upon  Mrs.  Maxwell  in  a  moment. 
Some  one  had  been  repeating  the  stories  she  had  so  con- 


TALE-TELLING.  205 

fidently  given  credence  to,  before  making  Mrs.  Arnot's 
acquaintance. 

"I  could  not  believe  it  at  first,"  continued  Mrs.  Ar- 
not,  now  speaking  more  freely.  "  I  shook  off  the  sus 
picion,  though  one  of  your  own  friends  you  had  your 
self  introduced  told  it  to  me.  I  tried  to  meet  you  the 
same  as  ever,  but  I  could  not.  I  could  not  play  the 
hypocrite !  I  should  not  have  cared  so  much  for  myself, 
but  to  think  after  all  I  had  told  you  of  Robert's  good 
ness,  it  was  too  cruel!" 

It  was  thus  that  Mrs.  Maxwell's  fault  had  "  returned 
to  her  after  many  days."  A  fault  she  had  forgotten, 
save  as  a  warning  not  to  give  credence  to  rumour  for  the 
future.  And  then,  as  a  still  further  expiation  of  past, 
errors,  she  told  all — how  she  had  been  guilty  only  in 
repeating  the  slanderous  tale  from  very  kindness  of 
heart ;  that  the  belief  of  her  husband's  unkindness  had 
first  attracted  her  to  Mrs.  Arnot,  and  that  she  should 
have  confessed  this,  and  craved  her  pardon,  but  to  spare 
her  from  the  knowledge  that  her  own  conduct  had  con 
firmed  the  cruel  suspicions. 

They  were  both  humbled,  both  subdued.  The  know- 
ledge  that  her  own  offence  had  clouded  her  husband's 
good  name,  quelled  every  rising  thought  of  pride  in 
Mrs.  Arnot's  heart.  She  felt  that  she  had  wronged  her 
friend  by  not  seeking  an  explanation,  by  the  distrust 
which  prompted  concealment.  There  was  mutual  par 
don  to  be  sought,  mutual  forgiveness  obtained ;  and 
though  Mrs.  Maxwell  asked  no  name,  she  well  under 
stood  who  was  "the  whisperer"  that  had  "separated 
chief  friends." 


206  TALE-TELLING 

She  had  suffered  before  from  Miss  Lane's  distorted 
repetitions ;  always  put  forward  so  carelessly,  so  good- 
naturedly,  yet  bringing  mischief  in  the  end.  She  had 
wished  Mrs.  Arnot's  good  graces,  and  had  said  "  she 
never  expected  to  see  Mrs.  Maxwell  and  herself  so  inti 
mate  at  one  time,  when  Mrs.  Maxwell  had  first  heard 
these  stories." 

It  was  only  natural  to  ask  "  what  stories  !"  and  to  bo 
told  the  whole  affair  without  date  or  explanation,  how 
ever,  two  very  important  points  Miss  Susie  did  not  con 
sider  it  necessary  to  be  particular  about.  Mrs.  Arnot 
had  other  acquaintances  quite  considerate  enough  to  tell 
her  "how  much  they  had  felt  for  her,  when  every  one 
believed,  from  what  Mrs.  Maxwell  had  said,  that  her 
husband  was  unkind." 

There  are  some  people,  strange  as  it  seems,  quite 
judicious  enough  for  such  a  communication,  and  the 
flame  was  fanned.  Mrs.  Arnot  was  proud — Mrs.  Max 
well's  manner  was  tortured  into  conscious  guiltiness,  and 
one  barrier  after  another  was  thus  placed  between  them. 

They  parted,  as  they  both  said,  better  friends  than 
ever — each  anxious  to  repair  the  wrong  she  believed 
herself  to  have  committed.  But, 

"  What  deep  wound  ever  closed  without  a  scar  ?" 

and,  though  Mrs.  Arnot  had  learned  that  it  was  the 
part  of  true  friendship  never  to  credit  a  suspicion,  and 
Mrs.  Maxwell  became  more  truly  charitable  than  ever, 
it  was  a  long  time  before  the  old  confidence  was  wholly 
restored.  Not  until  Mrs.  Arnot  was  again  a  mother, 
and  when  Mrs.  Maxwell  stooped  down  to  caress  the 


BEAR   ON,    BEAR    BRAVELY    ON.  207 

beautiful  infant,  whose  name  she  asked,  Angela  said, 
"  She  is  to  be  called  Anna,  that  I  may  always  remember 
my  first  real  friend,  for  I  have  learned  all  that  little  word 
means  since  knowing  you." 


BEAR  ON,  BEAR  BRAVELY  ON. 

0,  NEVER,  from  thy  tempted  heart, 
Let  thine  integrity  depart ; 
When  disappointment  fills  thy  cup, 
Undaunted,  nobly  drink  it  up; 
Truth  will  prevail,  and  Justice  show 
Her  tardy  honours,  sure  though  slow; 

Bear  on,  bear  bravely  on. 

Boar  on  !  our  life  is  not  a  dream, 
Though  often  such  its  mazes  seem  ; 
We  were  not  born  to  lives  of  ease, 
Ourselves  alone  to  aid  and  please. 
To  each  a  daily  task  is  given, 
A  labour  which  shall  fit  for  heaven  ; 
When  duty  calls,  let  love  grow  warm, 
Amid  the  sunshine  and  the  storm, 
With  Faith  life's  trials  boldly  breast, 
And  couie  a  conqueror  to  thy  rest ; 

Bear  on,  bear  bravely  >a 


"BLESSED  ARE  HIE  BELOVED!" 

"  Oh !  cast  thou  not 

Affection  from  thee  in  this  bitter  world  ! 
Hold  to  thy  heart  that  only  treasure  fast ; 
Watch — guard  it — suffer  not  a  breath  to  dim 
The  bright  gems  or  its  purity  1" 

"i  vfl.  it  is  a  bitter  world — and  how  few  there  are 
love  "is  I  Sometimes  we  meet  one  whom  we  feel  'twero 
bliss  to  live  for — to  die  for !  a  look  from  whose  eye  ia 
joy ;  a  tender  word  from  whose  lips  is  heaven ;  and  yet 
a  car  Jess  word,  an  idle  jest  uttered  in  a  merry  mood,  a 
little  -,/iistake,  has  power  to  part  us  ! 

How  few  there  are  who  love  us !  So  few  that  we 
cannof-  spare  one  from  out  the  number !  It  is  said  that 
"blessings  brighten  as  they  take  their  flight;"  and  so 
with  friendships,  so  with  loves,  we  prize  them  most  as 
they  leave  us. 

When  such  a  treasure,  which  has  almost  become  a 
part  of  our  being,  goes  from  us,  how  sad !  It  is  like 
the  losing  of  a  queen's  crown  diamonds ;  like  missing 
the  rarest  jewels  from  a  necklace ;  like  the  shattering 
of  an  exquisite  vase,  filled  with  precious  distilled  water 
which  can  never  be  gathered  up  again. 

There  can  be  no  greater  grief  than  to  be  shut  out 
from  the  shelter  of  a  beloved  one's  heart;  a  Hagar 
thrust  out  into  the  wilderness ;  a  Pariah  sent  forth  to 
wander  in  the  wide,  wide  outer  world  !  And  then,  when 
the  bitter  words  have  been  spoken  ;  when  affection  has 
been  turned  to  coolness;  when  we  sit  down  alone,  en- 


"  BLESSED   ARE   THE    BELOVED."  209 

wrapped  in  the  mantle  of  pride  and  scorn,  with  the  dead 
ashes  lying  scattered  upon  the  desolate  hearthstones  cf 
our  hearts — oh  !  it  is  like  dying  ! 

Oh !  ye  who  love  and  are  beloved,  clasp  close  your 
treasures  !  Suffer  nothing,  envy,  malice,  the  whispers 
of  slanderers,  the  voice  of  Fame,  the  love  of  gold,  or 
aught  else,  to  part  you !  Life  is,  by  far,  too  short  tc 
waste  in  bickerings ;  the  world  is  cold  enough  without 
our  adding  to  its  desolation.  Love  is  too  precious  to  be 
lost  lightly  !  Rather  bear  and  forbear,  forgive  and  for 
get,  cast  from  you  the  evil  and  only  gather  up  the  good, 
than  lose  one  jot  of  affection  ! 

Some  one  has  written,  "Love  not!  oh!  love  not!" 
but  surely, 

"  Twere  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  loved  at  all  \" 


*'  Better  trust  all  and  be  deceived, 

And  weep  that  trust  and  that  deceiving, 
Than  doubt  one  heart,  which,  if  believed, 
Had  blessed  one's  life  with  true  believing!" 

There  must  come  partings  for  all !  The  grave  must 
lie  between !  Some  day  the  earth  will  fall  heavily  upon 
the  coffin  wherein  you  have  buried  your  heart ;  the  sods 
will  press  down  the  dear  head  which  has  lain  upon  your 
breast ;  the  daisy  and  violet  will  bloom  above  the  lips 
which  have  so  often  met  your  own,  and  then  could  you 
bear  to  think  that  you  had  wronged  your  trust,  slighted 
their  love  and  cast  it  from  your  heart — or  that  pride,  or 
the  love  of  gold,  or  fame,  bad  parted  you  ? 

14 


210  THE   LEGEND    OF   BROTEIER    ALFUS. 

Ah,  no,  no  !  It  were  far  better  then  to  be  able  to 
bay,  "I  loved  him  always!"  "I  never  gave  him  a 
harsh  word!"  than  to  bind  the  mocking  wreath  of 
Fame  around  an  aching  brow,  or  clasp  dazzling  jewela 
over  a  desolated  heart. 

Yes,  Love  is  "  the  only  treasure !"  neither  power, 
Fame,  gold,  gems,  nor  the  applause  of  a  world  can 
satisfy  the  heart.  They  may  indeed  charm  and  cheat 
for  a  season — but  at  last,  like  the  apples  of  Sodom,  they 
turn  to  ashes  in  our  grasp. 

There  is  no  truer  earthly  bliss  than  the  priceless  boon 
of  Love.  Happy  they  who  win  it !  Thrice  "  blessed 
are  the  beloved !" 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BROTHER  ALFUS. 

IN  the  old  days,  when  monasteries  studded  the  slopes 
of  every  hill  in  Germany,  they  formed  a  feature  in  every 
landscape;  huge  buildings  of  quiet,  peaceable  aspect, 
rearing  their  small,  slender  belfry  towers  in  the  midst 
of  forests  where  the  ringdoves  hopped  from  branch  to 
branch.  Many  a  faulty,  erring  man,  no  doubt,  those 
gray  walls  sheltered,  but  they  contained,  as  well,  many 
a  saintly  sage,  whose  thoughts,  long  since  weaned  from 
all  worldly  joys,  dwelt  only  on  the  future  and  the  invi 
Bible. 

At  Olmutz,  in  particular,  there  was  one  who  had  ren 
dered  himself  famous  throughout  the  surrounding  coun- 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BROTHER  ALFUS.          211 

try,  by  his  piety  and  learning ;  he  was  a  simple  and 
unaffected  man,  like  all  men  whose  knowledge  is  great; 
for  science  is  like  the  sea — the  further  we  advance,  tho 
wider  grows  the  horizon,  and  the  less  do  we  seem  our- 
Be"  vea.  Brother  Alfus  had  had,  nevertheless,  his  seasons 
of  doubt  and  misgiving ;  but  after  having  wrinkled  his 
brow  and  whitened  his  hair  in  vain  disquisitions,  he  had 
at  last  been  compelled  to  fall  back  upon  the  faith  of 
little  children;  and  then  confiding  his  life  to  prayer,  as 
to  an  anchor  of  mercy,  he  suffered  himself  to  rock  gently 
in  the  tide  of  pure  love,  holy  visions,  and  heavenly  hopes. 

But  in  a  little  while  rough  squalls  began  again  to  shake 
the  saintly  bark.  The  temptations  of  the  understanding 
returned,  and  reason  began  haughtily  to  question  faith. 
Then  Brother  Alfus  grew  sad ;  dark  clouds  began  to 
float  over  his  spirit ;  his  heart  grew  cold,  and  he  could 
no  longer  pray.  Wandering  through  the  country,  he 
sat  upon  the  mossy  rocks,  lingered  by  the  foam  of  water 
falls,  and  sauntered  amidst  the  murmurs  of  the  forest ; 
but  it  was  in  vain  that  he  sought  light  from  nature.  To 
all  his  inquiries,  the  mountains,  the  leaves,  and  the  streams 
gave  but  one  answer — GOD  !  Brother  Alfus  came  out 
victorious  from  many  of  these  struggles,  and  each  time 
his  faith  was  made  firmer  than  ever,  for  temptation  was 
the  gymnasium  of  the  conscience  ;  if  it  does  not  destroy 
it,  it  strengthens  it. 

But,  after  a  time,  inquietude  came  over  his  spirit  more 
keenly  than  ever.  He  had  remarked  that  everything 

J  O 

beautiful  loses  its  charm  by  long  use ;  that  the  eye  soon 
grows  tired  of  the  most  beautiful  landscape,  the  ear  of 
the  sweetest  voice,  the  heart  of  the  fondest  love ;  and 


212         THE  LEGEND  OF  BROTHER  ALFUS. 

then  lie  asked,  How  shall  we  find,  even  in  heaven,  a 
source  of  eternal  joy  ?  In  the  midst  of  magnificence  and 
delight  which  have  no  end,  what  will  become  of  our  rest 
less  souls  ?  Will  riot  unchangeable  pleasure  at  last  bring 
on  ennui?  "Eternity  !  what  a  word  for  creatures  who 
know  no  law  but  that  of  change  and  diversity?  What 
man  could  wish  his  sweetest  pleasure  to  last  for  ever  ?  0, 
my  God  !  no  more  past,  and  no  more  future  !  no  more 
remembrances,  and  no  more  hopes  !  eternity !  eternity ! 
0,  sorrowful  word  !  0,  word,  which  hast  spread  fire  and 
lamentation  upon  earth,  what  must  thou,  then,  mean  iir. 
heaven?"  Thus  spoke  Brother  Alfus,  and  every  day 
his  doubts  became  greater.  One  morning  he  issued  from 
the  monastery  before  the  other  monks  had  risen,  and 
descended  into  the  valley.  The  fields,  still  moist  with 
last  night's  rain,  were  glistening  under  the  first  rays  of 
the  rising  sun,  like  a  maiden  smiling  through  her  tears. 
Alfus  stole  gently  through  the  shady  thickets  on  the 
hill-side.  The  birds,  which  had  but  just  awoke  from 
their  slumbers,  were  perched  in  the  hawthorns,  shaking 
down  rosy  blossoms  on  his  bald  head ;  and  some  butter 
flies,  still  half  asleep,  flew  lightly  in  the  sun  to  dry  their 
wings. 

Alfus  stopped  to  gaze  on  the  scene  before  him.  He 
remembered  how  beautiful  it  had  seemed  when  first  he 
saw  it,  and  with  what  transport  he  had  looked  forward 
to  ending  his  days  in  that  delightful  retreat.  For  him, 
poor  child  of  the  city,  accustomed  to  see  nought  but  dark 
courts  and  sombre  walls,  these  flowers,  and  trees,  and 
clear  air,  were  bewitching  novelties.  How  quickly  passed 
the  year  of  his  novitiate !  Those  long  rambles  in  the 


THE  LEGEND  OF  BROTHER  ALFUS.          213 

valleys,  and  those  charming  discoveries  !  Streams  mur 
muring  through  the  corn-flags,  glades  haunted  by  the 
nightingale,  eglantine  rose,  wild  strawberries — whaV  joy 
to  light  upon  them  for  the  first  time !  To  mee'.  with 
springs  from  which  he  had  not  yet  drunk,  and  uiossy 
banks  upon  which  he  had  never  yet  reclined  !  But,  alas  ! 
these  pleasures  themselves  do  not  last  long;  very  soon 
you  have  traversed  all  the  paths  of  the  forest,  you  have 
heard  the  songs  of  all  the  birds,  you  have  plucked  nose 
gays  of  all  the  flowers,  and  then  adieu  to  the  beauties 
of  the  country  !  Familiarity  descends  like  a  veil  between 
you  and  the  creation,  and  makes  you  blind  and  deaf. 

And  thus  it  was  now  with  Brother  Alfus.  Like  men 
whose  abuse  of  ardent  spirits  had  made  them  ceaye  to 
feel  thoir  power,  he  looked  with  indifference  on  a  spec 
tacle  which  in  his  eyes  had  once  been  ravishing.  What 
heavenly  beauties,  then,  could  occupy  throughout  eter 
nity  a  soul  which  the  works  of  God  on  earth  could  charm 
for  a  moment  only  ?  Asking  himself  this  question,  the 
monk  walked  on,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  but  see 
ing  nothing,  and  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast.  IIo 
descended  into  the  valley,  crossed  the  stream,  passed 
through  the  woods,  and  over  the  hills.  The  tower  of 
the  convent  was  beginning  already  to  fade  in  the  dis 
tance,  and  at  length  he  stopped.  He  was  on  the  verge 
of  a  vast  forest,  which  extended  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  like  an  ocean  of  verdure.  A  thousand  melodious 
sounds  met  his  ears  from  every  side,  and  an  odorous 
breeze  sighed  through  the  leaves.  After  casting  an  aston- 

&  O  O 

ishcd  look  upon  the  soft  obscurity  which  reigned  in  the 
wood,  Alfus  entered  \vith  hesitation,  as  if  he  feared  he 


214         THE  LEGEND  OF  BROTHER  ALFUS. 

were  treading  on  forbidden  ground.  As  he  advanced, 
the  forest  became  larger ;  he  found  trees  covered  with 
blossoms  which  exhaled  an  unknown  perfume;  it  had 
nothing  enervating  in  it,  like  those  of  earth,  but  was,  as 
it  were,  a  sort  of  moral  emanation  which  embalmed  the 
soul.  It  was  strengthening  and  delicious  at  the  same 
time,  like  the  sight  of  a  good  action,  or  the  approach 
of  a  lover.  At  length  he  perceived,  farther  on,  a  glade 
radiant  with  a  marvellous  light.  He  sat  down  to  enjoy 
the  prospect,  and  then,  suddenly,  the  song  of  a  bird 
overhead  fell  upon  his  ear — sounds  so  sweet  as  to  defy 
description,  gentler  than  the  fall  of  oars  on  a  lake  in 
summer,  than  the  murmur  of  the  breeze  amongst  weep 
ing  willows,  or  the  sigh  of  a  sleeping  infant.  All  the 
music  of  the  air,  and  earth,  and  water,  the  melody  of 
the  human  voice,  or  of  instruments,  seemed  centred  in 
that  song.  It  was  hardly  a  song,  but  floods  of  melody ; 
it  was  not  language,  and  yet  :he  voice  spoke.  Science, 
wisdom,  and  poetry,  all  were  in  it ;  and  in  hearing  it,  one 
acquired  all  knowledge. 

Alfus  listened  for  a  long  time,  and  with  increasing 
pleasure.  At  last  the  light  which  illumined  the  forest 
began  to  fade,  a  low  murmur  was  heard  amongst  the 
trees,  and  the  bird  was  silent. 

Alfus  remained  for  a  while  motionless,  as  if  he  were 
awaking  from  an  enchanted  sleep.  He  at  first  looked 
R  round  in  a  sort  of  stupor,  and  then  arose.  He  found 
his  feet  benumbed  :  his  limbs  had  lost  their  agility.  It 
was  with  difficulty  he  directed  his  steps  towards  the  mo 
nastery. 

But  the  farther  he  went,  the  greater  was  his  surprise. 


THE    LFA.F.ND   OF   BROTHKK    ALFUS.  215 

The  face  of  the  whole  country  seemed  change*].  Whore 
he  had  before  seen  sprouting  shrubs,  he  now  saw  wide 
spread  ing  oaks.  lie  looked  for  the  little  wooden  bridge 
by  which  he  was  accustomed  to  cross  the  river.  It  was 
gone,  and  in  its  place  was  a  solid  arch  of  stone.  On 
passing  a  hedge  on  which  some  women  were  spreading 
clothes  to  dry,  they  stopped  to  look  at  him,  and  said 
amongst  themselves, 

"  There  is  an  old  man  dressed  like  the  monks  of 
Olmutz.  We  know  all  the  brothers,  but  we  have  never 
seen  him  before." 

"  These  women  are  fools,"  said  Alfus,  and  passed  on. 
But  at  last  he  began  to  feel  uneasy.  He  quickened  his 
footsteps  as  he  climbed  the  narrow  pathway  which  led 
up  the  hill-side  towards  the  convent.  But  the  gate 
was  no  longer  in  its  old  place,  arid  the  monastery  was 
changed  in  its  appearance  ;  it  was  greater  in  extent,  and 
the  buildings  were  more  numerous.  A  plane-tree,  whit-li 
he  had  himself  planted  near  the  chapel  a  few  months 
before,  covered  the  sacred  building  with  its  foliage. 
Overpowered  with  astonishment,  the  monk  approached 
the  new  entrance,  and  rang  gently.  But  it  was  not  the 
same  silver  bell,  the  sound  of  which  he  knew  so  well. 
A  young  brother  opened  the  door. 

"  What  has  happened  ?"  asked  Alfus  ;  "  is  Antony  no 
longer  a  porter  of  the  convent?" 

"  I  don't  know  such  a  person,"  was  the  reply.  Alibis 
rubbed  his  eyes  with  astonishment. 

"Am  I  then  mad?"  he  exclaimpd.  "Is  not  this  thp 
monastery  of  Olinutz,  which  I  left  this  morning " 

The  young  monk  looked  at  him. 


216         THE  LEGEND  OF  BROTHER  ALFUS. 

"I  have  been  porter  here  for  five  years,"  was  the 
rejoinder,  u  and  I  do  not  remember  to  have  ever  seen 
you." 

A  number  of  monks  were  walking  up  and  down  the 
cloisters.  Alfus  ran  towards  them,  and  called  them; 
but  none  answered.  He  went  closer,  but  not  one  of 
them  could  he  recognise. 

"  Has  there  been  a  miracle  here?"  he  cried.  "In 
the  name  of  heaven,  my  brothers,  has  none  of  you  ever 
seen  me  before  ?  Does  no  one  know  Brother  Alfus  ?" 

All  looked  at  him  with  astonishment.  "Alfus!"  at 
last  said  the  oldest ;  "  there  was  formerly  a  monk  of 
that  name  at  the  convent.  I  used  to  hear  the  old  men, 
long  ago,  when  I  was  young,  talking  of  him.  He  was 
a  learned  man,  but  a  dreamer,  and  fond  of  solitude. 
One  day  he  descended  into  the  valley,  and  was  lost 
sight  of  behind  the  wood.  They  expected  him  back  in 
vain.  He  never  returned,  and  none  knew  what  became 
of  him ;  but  it  is  now  a  hundred  years  or  more,  since 
that." 

At  these  words  Alfus  uttered  a  loud  cry,  for  he  under 
stood  it  all ;  and  falling  on  his  knees,  he  lifted  up  his 
hands  and  exclaimed  with  fervour:  "0,  my  God;  it  has 
been  thy  will  to  show  me  my  folly  in  comparing  the  joys 
of  earth  with  those  of  heaven.  A  century  has  rolled 
over  my  head  as  a  single  day,  while  listening  to  the 
bird  that  sings  in  thy  paradise.  I  now  understand 
eternal  happiness.  0,  Lord,  be  gracious  unto  me,  and 
pardon  thine  unworthy  servant !" 

Having  thus  spoken,  Brother  Alfus  extended  hia 
arms,  kissed  the  ground,  and  died. 


HOW   TO   BE    IIA>PY. 

I  WILL  give  you  two  or  three  good  rules  which  may 
help  you  to  beeome  happier  than  you  would  be  without 
knowing  them ;  but  as  to  being  completely  happy,  that 
you  can  never  be  till  you  get  to  heaven. 

The  first  is,  "  Try  your  best  to  make  others  happy." 
"I  never  was  happy,"  said  a  certain  king,  "  till  I  began 
to  take  pleasure  in  the  welfare  of  my  people ;  but.  ever 
since  then,  in  the  darkest  day,  I  have  had  sunshine  in 
my  heart." 

My  second  rule  is,  "  Be  content  with  little."  There 
are  many  good  reasons  for  this  rule.  We  deserve  but 
little  ;  we  require  but  little  ;  and  "  Better  is  a  littl^  with 
the  fear  of  God,  than  great  treasures  and  trouble  there 
with."  Two  men  determined  to  be  rich,  but  they  set 
about  it  in  different  ways ;  for  the  one  strove  to  raise  his 
means  to  his  desires,  while  the  other  did  his  best  to 
bring  down  his  desires  to  his  means.  The  result  was, 
the  one  who  coveted  much  was  always  repining,  while 
he  who  desired  but  little  was  always  contented. 

My  third  rule  is,  u  Look  on  the  sunny  side  of  things." 
The  skipping  lamb,  the  singing  lark,  and  the  leaping 
fish,  tell  us  that  happiness  is  not  confined  to  one  place. 
God,  in  his  goodness,  has  spread  it  abroad  on  the 
earth,  in  the  air,  and  on  the  waters.  Two  aged  women 
lived  in  the  same  cottage ;  one  was  always  fearing  a 
storm,  and  the  other  was  always  looking  for  sunshine. 
Ilardly  need  I  say  which  it  was  wore  a  forbidding  frown, 
or  which  it  was  whose  face  was  lighted  up  with  joy. 


HE  GIVETH  HIS  BELOVfiD  SLEEP. 

(PSALM127:  2.) 

As  from  the  glare  of  busy,  feverish  day, 
We  turn  with  longing  to  the  holy  stars, 

Feel  the  soft  air  of  night  around  us  play, 
And  bless  it  for  the  respite  from  our  cares  ; 

So  to  the  grave  the  earnest  Christian  turns, 
Weary  of  sin,  and  stained  with  many  tears, 

So  his  poor  bruised  heart  within  him  burns 
With  lo  iging  for  this  covert  from  his  fears. 

As  we  hear  music,  in  the  hush  of  night, 
Sounding  far  off,  as  if  the  angel  bands 

Were  sweeping  harp-springs  of  the  star-beams  bright» 
Close  by  the  door  of  Heaven,  with  skilful  hands  ; 

So,  through  the  awful  stillness  of  the  grave, 
The  Christian  soldier  hears  the  glorious  psalm 

Of  those  blest  souls  his  Master  came  to  save — 

And  who,  through  Him,  have  won  the  victor's  palm 

As  weary  children  to  their  mother's  care 
Hasten,  like  birds,  unto  the  parent  nest, 

Kneel  by  her  side,  and  say  their  evening  prayer, 
Then  fall  asleep,  close  nestled  to  her  breast ; 

Even  so  God's  children,  coming  to  the  eve 
Of  life's  last  weary  day,  pray  him  to  keep 

With  his  kind  care  the  dear  ones  they  must  leave. 
And  then  "  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 


REIY   ON    YOURSELF. 

MOST  persons  are  averse  to  close  thinking  and  in 
vestigation.  They  would  rather  rely  on  others,  and 
follow  the  beaten  track,  than  strike  out  new  paths,  and 
aim  at  greater  progress  and  higher  attainments.  It  is 
the  part  of  indolence  and  imbecility  servilely  to  copy 
others,  and  to  remain  satisfied  with  walking  in  their 
steps,  instead  of  soaring  into  higher  regions,  and  taking 
wider  views.  Much  depends  on  early  education  in  regard 
to  the  future  intellectual  efforts  of  children.  If  they  are 
furnished  with  everything  the  young  heart  can  desire, — 
if  every  gratifying  object  is  placed  around  them,  and 
there  is  nothing  left  for  the  exercise  of  their  own  powers, 
— their  minds  will  be  feeble,  and  never  acquire  the 
vigour  necessary  for  extensive  usefulness.  Parents  often 
greatly  mistake  in  providing  too  many  playthings  for 
their  children.  They  appear  to  think  that,  by  heaping 
around  their  little  ones  a  multitude  of  toys,  they  shall 
add  to  their  enjoyment  and  expand  their  minds.  But 
the  more  a  child  has  of  these  things  the  more  restless  he 
becomes.  lie  throws  aside  one  after  another  his  play 
things,  arid  is  almost  equally  dissatisfied  with  whatever 
is  placed  within  his  reach.  lie  has  too  many  objects; 
they  are  a  burden  to  him,  and  render  him  fretful  and 
uneasy. 

Even  the  child  derives  his  highest  pleasure  from  doing 
something  for  himself.  Give  him  a  few  articles,  and  let 


220  RELY   ON   YOURSELF. 

him  add  others  by  his  own  invention  ;  let  him  try  what 
he  can  do,  and  see  that  his  efforts  have  accomplished 
something,  and  he  will  be  delighted  and  stimulated  to 
renewed  exertion.  The  boy  who  has  made  but  the  rude 
imitation  of  a  ship,  a  cart,  or  a  house,  will  be  more 
cheerful  and  happy  than  he  world  have  been  by  the 
most  costly  and  brilliant  toy.  But,  what  is  of  far  more 
importance,  his  mind  has  received  a  new  impulse ;  it  has 
acquired  new  vigour,  and  is  better  prepared  for  other 
efforts.  It  is  by  a  succession  of  these  infantile  attempts, 
by  an  almost  infinitude  of  trials  to  imitate  the  sterner 
realities  of  age,  that  the  mind  gathers  strength,  develops 
its  powers,  and  rises  to  the  highest  attainments.  The 
pyramids  of  Egypt,  it  has  been  said,  were  built  by  the 
successive  strokes  of  the  pickaxe  and  the  chisel,  and  the 
mightiest  intellect  is  formed  by  a  gradual  process  from 
the  imbecility  of  infancy.  Its  progress  may  not  be  ob 
servable  for  a  time,  like  the  coral  rock  built  up  from  the 
bottom  of  the  ocean ;  but  it  ultimately  rises  above  the 
waves,  and  becomes  an  island,  adorned  with  verdure 
and  beauty.  So  the  childish  intellect,  by  its  own  action, 
rises  above  the  common  level,  becomes  an  ornament  to 
society,  and  a  blessing  to  the  world.  Could  you  have 
seen,  in  childhood,  any  one  of  the  self-made  men  who 
have  honoured  the  country  and  the  age  in  which  they 
lived,  you  would  Lave  found  him  left  to  his  own  re 
sources.  His  self-formation  commenced  with  the  first 
buddings  of  reason  and  imagination.  So  it  was  with 
Franklin,  Sherman,  and  others.  Their  Lumble  origin 
shows  that  they  were  not  surrounded  with  a  profusion 
of  splendid  toys.  Their  minds  were  daily  acquiring 


RELY   ON   YOURSELF. 


221 


fresh  impulse  and  increased  energy  from  the  very  cir 
cumstances  of  destitution  in  which  they  were  placed. 
What  Wehster,  the  great  statesman  and  careful  observer 
of  human  nature,  says  of  older  scholars,  is  equally  ap 
plicable  to  children :  "  Costly  apparatus  and  splendid 
cabinets  have  no  magical  power  to  make  scholars.  Aa 
a  man  is  in  all  circumstances,  under  God,  the  master  of 
his  own  fortune,  so  he  is  the  maker  of  his  own  mind. 
The  Creator  has  so  constituted  the  human  intellect,  that 
it  can  only  grow  by  its  own  action,  and  thereby  it  will 
certainly  and  necessarily  grow.  Every  man  must,  there 
fore,  educate  himself."  Let  parents  improve  the  clue 
here  given,  and  apply  it  to  the  training  of  children. 
Assist  them  in  their  rude  endeavours  to  do  something 
for  themselves.  Furnish  the  means,  and  they  will  soon 
learn  to  apply  them  in  accomplishing  their  purposes. 

They  should  early  be  taught  that  they  have  a  cha 
racter  to  form,  on  which  depends  their  own  happiness, 
the  esteem  of  friends,  and,  above  all,  the  approbation  of 
their  Maker  and  Redeemer.  They  can  soon  learn  that 
there  is  no  pleasure  like  that  of  doing  right,  of  being 
kind,  generous,  and  thankful  for  favours  shown  them. 
He  who  would  have  friends  must  show  himself  friendly, 
and  there  are  innumerable  occasions  recurring  daily  for 
tne  exercise  of  the  best  and  noblest  affections.  A  child 
should  love  to  please  and  oblige  others,  and  should  love 
to  do  good.  This  should  be  his  element,  the  very  air  he 
breathes,  the  rejoicing  of  his  heart.  He  is  amiable  and 
lovely  just  in  proportion  as  he  exhibits  good-will  and 
kindness,  and  a  regard  for  justice  and  rectitude ;  and 
he  is  an  object  of  pity,  to  be  pointed  at  by  the  finger  of 


222  EELY   ON   YOURSELF. 

Bcorn,  when  these  traits  are  wanting,  or  the  opposite 
ones  displayed.  His  character  is  himself,  his  dis 
positions,  affections,  and  general  conduct.  It  is  that 
which  he  will  carry  with  him  in  future  life,  and  which 
will  shape  his  destiny.  He  can  easily  be  made  to  realize 
its  importance,  and  how  much  it  depends  on  himself. 
Parents  must  look  after  their  children,  when  away  fioin 
under  the  parental  roof.  Their  eye  must  follow  them  to 
the  village  school,  and  they  must  see  what  influences  are 
operating  there  for  good  or  evil,  and  what  are  the 
restraints  under  which  they  are  placed.  It  is  surprising 
how  much  mischief  they  will  learn,  in  a  short  period, 
from  wicked  companions,  and  how  much  they  may  do  to 
corrupt  the  minds  and  morals  of  others.  They  should 
be  made  to  realize  their  individual  responsibility,  while 
mingling  with  their  associates,  and  that  they  are  ac 
countable  for  their  conduct  in  company  equally  as  when 
alone.  Each  individual  is  singled  out  and  marked  by 
the  all-seeing  One,  and  the  sins  of  youth  may  cause 
regret  and  remorse  at  a  future  day. 

The  formation  of  character  demands  the  study  of  the 
Scriptures  with  a  view  to  their  precepts  and  examples. 
It  requires  the  cultivation  of  the  heart,  the  moral  affec 
tions  as  well  as  the  intellect.  It  involves  improvement 
in  external  deportment,  in  ease,  propriety,  and  manly 
behaviour,  in  consulting  the  feelings  of  others,  and  in 
often  yielding  our  convenience  to  theirs.  Civility  is  a 
great  ornament,  and  next  in  importance  to  the  first 
principles  of  knowledge. 

Children  should  early  be  taught  self-government. 
They  must  learn  to  govern  their  temper  arid  passions, 


RELY    ON    YOURSELF.  2*23 

and  not  be  left  as  the  "  horse,  or  as  the  mule,  which 
have  no  understanding ;  whose  mouth  must  be  held  in 
Vithabitand  bridle."  It  is  shameful  and  ruinous  to 
allow  them  to  fly  into  a  rage,  and  give  way  to  violent 
passion,  when  unexpectedly  disappointed  in  regard  to  a 
pleasant  walk-  or  ride,  or  some  other  anticipated  enjoy 
ment.  Whenever  such  ill  temper  is  manifested,  they 
must  be  called  to  an  account,  whatever  other  business 
is  on  hand,  and  must  be  taught  its  exceeding  sinful  ness 
and  its  destructive  consequences  to  themselves.  Self- 
government  is  essential  to  all  true  peace  and  happiness ; 
it  is  essential  to  the  quiet  of  families  and  communities, 
and  to  all  civil  freedom.  A  free  government  cannot 
exist  where  the  people  have  not  learned  to  govern  them 
selves.  Anarchy  and  despotism  will  ensue,  and  the 
masses  must  be  controlled  by  the  strong  arm  of  abso 
lute  power.  A  vigilant,  an  all-pervading  police,  or  a 
standing  army,  must  accomplish  what  the  people  might 
easily  do  for  themselves.  The  foundation  of  all  free 
government  must  be  laid  in  the  early  training  of  child 
ren.  They  must  be  made  to  control  their  temper.  This 
may  be  a  difficult  task  ;  it  may  require  a  long  course  of 
discipline  ;  but  the  object  is  worth  all  the  care  and  effort 
it  may  cost.  Washington  well  understood  its  importance 
when  he  said,  "I  can  more  easily  govern  the  American 
army  than  my  passions."  But  he  had  them  in  subjection, 
and  the  world  admired  his  self-possession  and  unruffled 
temper  in  the  most  trying  circumstances.  Scarcely  a 
greater  blessing  can  be  conferred  upon  a  child  than  the 
ability  to  govern  himself  in  the  fear  of  the  Lord  in 
every  emergency. 


224  RELY   ON   YOURSELF. 

The  young  should  be  taught  to  rely  on  their  own 
efforts  in  their  studies.  They  must  use  the  utmost  en 
deavours  to  solve  a  difficult  problem,  or  investigate  an 
abstruse  subject,  before  resorting  to  others  for  assist 
ance.  They  must  learn  to  clothe  their  thoughts  in  their 
own  language.  It  may  not  be  as  learned  and  elegant 
as  that  of  the  most  accomplished  writers ;  but  one  idea 
expressed  in  their  own  way  is  more  improving  and  worth 
more  than  the  copying  of  whole  pages  from  other  au 
thors.  By  giving  utterance  to  their  own  feelings  and 
conceptions,  they  are  preparing  to  become  the  future 
ministers  of  the  gospel,  the  eloquent  advocates  at  the 
bar  and  in  the  senate.  They  acquire  the  habit  of  think 
ing  for  themselves,  and  thus  become  qualified  for  taking 
a  part  in  the  great  enterprises  of  the  day,  and  pushing 
forward  the  movements  which  are  to  renovate  the  moral 
world. 

Let  it  not  be  thought  that  this  self-reliance  is  incon 
sistent  with  a  proper  sense  of  dependence  on  the  Su 
preme.  All  our  powers  are  given  us  by  the  Creator,  to 
be  employed  for  his  glory  in  accomplishing  the  purposes 
of  redeeming  mercy.  They  must  be  improved  diligently 
by  us,  while  realizing  our  entire  dependence  on  a  higher 
power.  "  Without  me,"  saith  the  Saviour,  "  ye  can  do 
nothing."  He  only  who  quietly  and  with  child-like 
simplicity  submits  himself  to  God,  accomplishes  the  end 
of  his  existence,  and  enjoys  lasting  security  and  peace. 

"  From  Thee  is  all  that  soothes  the  life  of  man. 
His  high  endeavour  and  his  glad  success, 
His  strength  to  suffer  and  his  will  to  serve." 


OOP   IS   LOVE 


the  mountain  side, 
And  look  abroad  o'er  all  the  joyous  earth  ; 
Young  flowers  are  flinging  incense  far  and  wid% 

And  the  rejoicing  streams, 

With  all  their  happy  gleams, 
Sparkle  out  gladness  at  the  sunshine's  birth. 

What  speaks  of  hatred  here? 
On  the  high  mountain,  in  the  leafy  grove, 

There  is  no  sign  of  sorrow  or  of  fear  : 
God  speaks  through  Nature  in  the  tones  of  lova. 

The  air  is  breathing  balm, 
From  earth's  dim  convex,  to  the  circling  skies  ; 
It  falsely  seemeth  but  a  voiceless  calm. 

These  kindly  spirits  bend, 

And  with  earth's  discords,  blend 
The  music  of  celestial  harmonies. 

Nor  in  the  warlike  guise 
Of  earth's  proud  armies  do  the  bright  hosts 

But  gloriously  humble,  meekly  wise, 
God  speaks  through  Angels  in  the  tones  of  love. 

On  Zion's  holy  hill, 

"  Fairest  among  ten  thousand,"  who  is  he 
That  to  the  tempest  speaketh,  "  Peace,  be  still  ?* 

And  to  the  ear  of  faith 

In  softest  music  saith, 
"Come,  weary-hearted,  come  to  peace  and  me," 

Come,  trusting  fearlessly  ! 
"Come  —  and  an  easy  burden  mine  shall  prove  ;* 

Thus  saith  "  the  faithful  witness"  unto  thee, 
God  speaks  through  Jesus  in  the  tones  of  love. 
15 


226  THE    RELATION    OF   BROTHERS   AND    SISTERS. 

Physician  of  our  souls  ! 
Thy  love  is  ruling  over  all  our  days, 
Whether  the  loud-voiced  thunder  sternly  rolls, 

Or  the  low  breeze's  sigh 

Tells,  as  it  echoes  by, 
Thy  loving  mercies,  and  thy  equal  ways: 

No  wrath,  no  pain,  no  strife, 
But  peaceful  mercy  reigns  around — above, 
O'er  all  the  darkness  of  an  earthly  life, 
God  speaks  through  all  things  in  the  tones  of  lote. 


THE  RELATION  OF  BROTHERS  AND  SISTERS. 

MRS.  FARRAR,  in  her  excellent  "Young  Lady's 
Friend,"  makes  the  following  observations,  which  are 
particularly  commended  to  elder  sisters  :— - 

The  important  relation  which  sisters  bear  to  brothers 
cannot  be  fully  appreciated,  without  a  greater  know 
ledge  of  the  world  and  its  temptations  to  young  men, 
than  girls  in  their  teens  can  be  supposed  to  possess ; 
and  therefore  I  would  beg  you  to  profit  by  my  experi 
ence  in  this  matter,  and  to  believe  me  when  I  assure  you, 
that  your  companionship  and  influence  may  be  powerful 
agents  in  preserving  your  brothers  from  dissipation,  in 
saving  them  from  dangerous  intimacies,  and  maintaining 
in  their  minds  a  high  standard  of  female  excellence. 

If  your  brothers  are  younger  than  you,  encourage 
them  to  be  perfectly  confidential  with  you ;  win  their 
friendship  by  your  sympathy  in  all  their  concerns,  and 
let  them  see  that  their  interests  and  their  pleasures  are 


THE    RELATION    OF    BROTHERS    AND    SISTERS.  227 

liberally  provided  for  in  the  family  arrangements.  Never 
disclose  their  little  secrets,  however  unimportant  they 
may  seem  to  you ;  never  pain  them  by  any  ill-timed 
joke ;  never  repress  their  feelings  by  ridicule ;  but  be 
their  tenderest  friend,  and  then  you  may  become  their 
ablest  adviser.  If  separated  from  them  by  the  course 
of  school  or  college  education,  make  a  point  of  keeping 
up  your  intimacy  by  full,  free,  and  affectionate  corre 
spondence  ;  and  when  they  return  to  the  paternal  roof, 
at  that  awkward  age  between  youth  and  manhood,  when 
reserve  creeps  over  the  mind,  like  an  impenetrable  veil, 
suffer  it  not  to  interpose  between  you  and  your  brothers. 
Cultivate  their  friendship  and  intimacy  with  all  the  ad 
dress  and  tenderness  you  possess ;  for  it  is  of  unspeak 
able  importance  to  them  that  their  sisters  should  be 
their  confidential  friends.  Consider  the  loss  of  a  ball 
or  party,  for  the  sake  of  making  the  evening  pass  plea 
santly  to  your  brothers  at  home,  as  a  small  sacrifice ; 
one  you  should  unhesitatingly  make.  If  they  go  into 
company  with  you,  see  that  they  are  introduced  to  the 
most  desirable  acquaintances,  and  show  them  that  you 
are  interested  in  their  acquitting  themselves  well. 

If  you  are  so  happy  as  to  have  elder  brothers,  you 
should  be  equally  assiduous  in  cultivating  their  friend 
ship,  though  the  advances  must  of  course  be  differently 
made.  As  they  have  long  been  accustomed  to  treat  you 
at?  a  child,  you  may  meet  with  some  repulses  when  you 
aspire  to  become  a  companion  and  a  friend ;  \  ut  do  not 
be  discouraged  by  this.  The  earlier  maturity  of  girls, 
will  soon  render  you  their  equal  in  sentiment,  if  not  in 
knowledge,  and  your  ready  sympathy  will  soon  convince 


228  THE    RELATION    OF    BROTHERS    AND    SISTERS. 

them  of  it.  They  will  be  agreeably  surprised,  when 
they  find  their  former  plaything  and  messenger  become 
their  quick-sighted  and  intelligent  companion,  under 
standing  at  a  glance  what  is  passing  in  their  hearts ; 
and  love  and  confidence  on  your  part  will  soon  be  repaid 
in  kind.  Young  men  often  feel  the  want  of  a  confiden 
tial  friend  of  the  softer  sex,  to  sympathize  with  them  in 
their  little  affairs  of  sentiment,  and  happy  are  those  who 
find  one  in  a  sister. 

Once  possessed  of  an  elder  brother's  confidence,  spare 
no  pains  to  preserve  it ;  convince  him,  by  the  little  sacri 
fices  of  personal  convenience  and  pleasure  which  you 
are  willing  to  make  for  him,  that  when  you  do  oppose 
his  wishes,  it  is  on  principle  and  for  conscience*  sake ; 
then  will  you  be  a  blessing  to  him,  and,  even  when  dif 
fering  from  you,  he  will  love  and  respect  you  the  more 
for  your  adherence  to  a  high  standard. 

So  many  temptations  beset  young  men,  of  which 
young  women  know  nothing,  that  it  is  of  the  utmost 
importance  that  your  brothers'  evenings  should  be  hap 
pily  passed  at  home,  that  their  friends  should  be  your 
friends,  that  their  engagements  should  be  the  same  as 
yours,  and  that  various  innocent  amusements  should  be 
provided  for  them  in  the  family  circle.  Music  is  an 
accomplishment  chiefly  valuable  as  a  home  enjoyment, 
as  rallying  round  the  piano  the  various  members  of  the 
family,  and  harmonizing  their  hearts  as  well  as  voices, 
particularly  in  devotional  strains.  I  know  no  more 
agreeable  and  interesting  spectacle,  than  that  of  bro 
thers  and  sisters  playing  and  singing  together  those 
elevated  compositions  in  music  and  poetry  which  gratify 


THE   RELATION    OF   BROTHERS   AND   SISTERS.          229 

the  taste  and  purity  of  the  heart,  whilst  their  fond  pa 
rents  sit  delighted  by.  I  have  seen  and  heard  an  elder 
sister  thus  leading  the  family  choir,  who  was  the  soul 
of  harmony  to  the  whole  household,  and  whose  life  was 
a  perfect  example  of  those  virtues  which  I  am  here  en 
deavouring  to  inculcate.  Let  no  one  say,  in  reading 
tl»is  chapter,  that  too  much  is  here  required  of  sisters, 
that  no  one  can  be  expected  to  lead  such  a  self-sacrificing 
life ;  for  the  sainted  one  to  whom  I  refer,  was  all  that  I 
v'ould  ask  any  sister  to  be,  and  a  happier  person  never 
lived.  "  To  do  good  and  make  others  happy,"  was  her 
rule  of  life,  and  in  this  she  found  the  art  of  making 
herself  so. 

Sisters  should  be  always  willing  to  walk,  ride,  visit 
with  their  brothers,  and  esteem  it  a  privilege  to  be  their 
companions.  It  is  worth  while  to  learn  innocent  games 
for  the  sake  of  furnishing  brothers  with  amusement 
and  making  home  the  most  agreeable  place  to  them. 

If  your  brothers  take  an  interest  in  your  personal 
appearance  and  dress,  you  should  encourage  the  feeling 
by  consulting  their  taste,  and  sacrificing  any  little  fancy 
of  your  own  to  a  decided  dislike  of  theirs.  Brothers 
will  generally  be  found  strongly  opposed  to  the  slightest 
indecorum  in  sisters ;  even  those  who  are  ready  enough 
to  take  advantage  of  freedom  of  manners  in  other  girls, 
have  very  strict  notions  with  regard  to  their  own  sisters. 
Their  intercourse  with  all  sorts  of  men  enables  them  to 
judge  of  the  construction  put  upon  certain  actions,  and 
modes  of  dress  and  speech,  much  better  than  w(mcn 
can ;  and  you  will  do  well  to  take  their  advice  on  all 
euch  points. 


2'JO  THE    RELATION    OF    BROTHERS    AND    SISTERS. 

Brothers  and  sisters  may  greatly  aid  each  other  in 
judging  of  their  friends  of  the  opposite  sex.  Brothers 
can  throw  important  light  upon  the  character  and  merits 
of  young  men,  because  they  see  them  when  acting  out 
their  natures  before  their  comrades,  and  relieved  from 
the  restraints  of  the  drawing-room ;  and  you  can,  in 
return,  greatly  assist  your  brothers  in  coming  to  wiso 
and  just  conclusions  concerning  their  female  friends. 
Your  brothers  may  be  very  much  indebted  to  the  quicker 
penetration  of  women  into  each  other's  characters,  and 
saved  by  your  discernment  from  being  fascinated  by 
qualities  that  are  not  of  sterling  value  ;  but,  in  order 
to  have  the  influence  necessary  to  such  important  ends, 
you  must  be  habitually  free  from  a  spirit  of  detraction, 
candid  in  all  your  judgments,  and  ever  ready  to  admire 
whatever  is  lovely  and  good  in  your  own  sex.  If,  when 
you  dissent  from  your  brother's  too  favourable  opinion 
of  a  lady,  he  can  with  any  justice  charge  you  with  a 
prejudice  against  her  family,  or  a  capricious  dislike  of 
her,  your  judgment,  however  correct,  will  have  no  weight, 
and  he  will  be  very  likely  to  become  not  only  the  lady's 
champion,  but  her  lover. 

If  your  brothers  have  received  a  classical  education, 
and  are  studiously  inclined,  you  may  derive  great  assist 
ance  from  them  in  the  cultivation  of  your  own  mind, 
and  bind  them  still  closer  to  you  in  the  delightful  com 
panionship  of  literary  pursuits. 

I  have  been  told  by  men,  who  had  passed  unharmed 
through  the  temptations  of  youth,  that  they  owed  their 
escape  from  many  dangers  to  the  ii.timate  companion 
ship  of  affectionate  and  pure-minded  sisters.  They  have 


THE   RELATION    OF    BROTHERS    AND    SISTERS.  231 

been  saved  from  a  hazardous  meeting  with  idle  company 
by  some  home  engagement,  of  which  their  sisters  were 
the  charm ;  they  have  refrained  from  mixing  with  tho 
impure,  because  they  would  not  bring  home  thoughts 
and  feelings  which  they  could  not  share  with  those 
trusting  and  loving  friends  ;  they  have  put  aside  the 
wine-cup  and  abstained  from  stronger  potations,  because 
they  would  not  profane  with  their  fumes  the  holy  kiss, 
with  which  they  were  accustomed  to  bid  their  sisters 
good-night. 

The  duties  of  sisters  to  each  other  are  so  obvious  and 
well  understood,  that  it  will  be  needless  to  enter  fully 
upon  them  here.  If  your  heart  is  right  towards  God, 
and  you  feel  that  the  great  business  of  life  is  the  educa 
tion  of  your  immortal  spirit  for  eternity,  you  will  easily 
bear  with  the  infirmities  of  others,  because  you  will  be 
fully  impressed  with  a  sense  of  your  own ;  and,  when 
you  can  amicably  bear  and  forbear,  love  will  come  in, 
to  soften  every  asperity,  heal  every  little  wound,  and 
make  a  band  of  sisters  "  helpers  of  each  other's  joy." 

A  few  cases  may  arise,  in  the  most  harmonious  fami 
lies,  wherein  sisters  may  not  fully  understand  each 
other's  rights,  and  may  therefore  ignorantly  trespass 
upon  them  ;  such,  for  instance,  as  where  one  of  tho 
family  is  very  fond  of  reading,  and  wishes  to  nave  a, 
certain  portion  of  her  time  uninterruptedly  given  to  that 
employment,  and  a  sister  keeps  interrupting  her  by  con 
versation,  or  appeals  to  her  for  aid  in  some  lesson  or 
piece  of  work.  Sometimes  a  great  reader  is  made  the 
butt  of  the  rest  of  the  family  for  that  very  valuable 
propensity,  and  half  her  pleasure  in  it  destroyed  by 


232  THE   RELATION   OP   BROTHERS   AND    SISTERS 

its  being  made  a  standing  joke  among  her  brothers  and 
sisters. 

Sisters  should  as  scrupulously  regard  each  other'a 
rights  of  property,  as  they  would  those  of  a  guest  stay 
ing  in  the  house ;  never  helping  themselves  without 
leave  to  the  working  materials,  writing  implements, 
drawing  apparatus,  books,  or  clothing  of  each  other. 
It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  nearness  of  the  rela 
tionship  makes  it  allowable  ;  the  more  intimate  our  con 
nexion  with  any  one,  the  more  necessary  it  is  to  guard 
ourselves  against  taking  unwarrantable  liberties.  For 
the  very  reason  that  you  are  obliged  to  be  so  much  to 
gether,  you  should  take  care  to  do  nothing  disagreeable 
to  each  other. 

Love  is  a  plant  of  delicate  growth,  and,  though  it 
sometimes  springs  up  spontaneously,  it  will  never  flourish 
long  and  well,  without  careful  culture ;  and  when  I  see 
how  it  is  cultivated  in  some  families,  the  wonder  is,  not 
that  it  does  not  spread  so  as  to  overshadow  the  whole 
circle,  but  that  any  sprig  of  it  should  survive  the  rude 
treatment  it  meets  with. 

Genuine  politeness  is  a  great  fosterer  of  family  love ; 
it  allays  accidental  irritation,  by  preventing  harsh  retorts 
and  rude  contradictions  ;  it  softens  the  boisterous,  stimu 
lates  the  indolent,  suppresses  selfishness,  and,  by  form 
ing  a  habit  of  consideration  for  others,  harmonizes  the 
whole.  Politeness  begets  politeness,  and  brothers  may 
be  easily  won  by  it  to  leave  off  the  rude  ways  they  Vring 
home  from  school  or  college.  Never  receive  any  little 
attention  without  thanking  them  for  it,  never  ask  a  favour 
of  them  but  in  cautious  terms,  never  reply  to  their  ques 


THE   RELATION    OF    BROTHERS    AND    SISTERS.  233 

tions  in  monosyllables,  and  they  will  soon  be  ashamed 
to  do  such  things  themselves.  You  should  labour,  by 
precept  and  example,  to  convince  them  that  no  one  can 
have  really  good  manners  abroad,  who  is  not  habitually 
polite  at  home. 

Elder  sisters  exert  a  very  great  influence  over  the 
younger  children  of  a  family,  either  for  good  or  for  evil. 
If  you  are  impatient,  unfair  in  your  judgments,  or 
assume  too  much  authority,  you  injure  the  tempers  of 
these  little  ones,  make  them  jealous  of  their  rights,  and 
render  your  own  position  a  very  unpleasant  one  ;  where 
as,  if  you  are  patient  and  kind,  and  found  your  preten 
sions  to  dictate,  not  on  your  age,  but  on  truth  and  justice, 
the  younger  children  will  readily  allow  your  claims. 

Young  children  are  excellent  judges  of  the  motives 
and  feelings  of  those  who  attempt  to  control  them ;  and, 
if  you  would  win  their  love,  and  dispose  them  to  comply 
with  your  reasonable  requests,  you  must  treat  them  with 
perfect  candour  and  uprightness.  Never  attempt  to 
cheat,  even  the  youngest,  into  a  compliance  with  your 
wishes ;  for,  though  you  succeed  at  the  time,  you  lessen 
your  influence  by  the  loss  of  confidence  which  follows 
detection. 

With  every  disposition  to  treat  the  younger  ones 
kindly,  elder  sisters  are  often  discouraged  and  discom 
forted  by  what  they  consider  the  over  indulgence  of  their 
parents  towards  the  younger  members  of  the  family  ;  but 
where  this  complaint  is  well  founded,  much  is  still  in 
their  power.  They  can,  by  judicious  conduct,  do  a  great 
deal  to  counteract  the  bad  effects  of  this  parental  fond 
ness,  and  make  the  little  ones  ashamed  to  take  a  mean 


234  THE   RELATION    OF   BROTHERS   AND    SISTERS. 

advantage  of  it.  The  very  indulgent  are  seldom  just ; 
now  children  value  justice  and  strict  adherence  to  pro 
mises  more  than  indulgence,  and  you  may  mould  them 
to  your  will  by  the  exercise  of  those  higher  qualities. 

It  is  the  duty  of  elder  sisters  to  take  a  lively  interest 
in  the  education  of  the  younger  children,  and  to  use  all 
the  advantages  which  they  have  received,  for  the  benefit 
of  those  that  are  coming  forward  in  the  same  line.  They 
should  aid  their  parents  in  the  choice  of  schools,  and 
ascertain  what  is  actually  learnt  at  them.  Where  cir 
cumstances  render  it  necessary  that  the  elder  children 
should  assist  in  teaching  the  younger  ones,  it  should  be 
done  cheerfully ;  not  as  a  duty  merely,  but  as  a  useful 
discipline.  Some  writers  upon  education  consider  teach 
ing  others  as  the  best  and  most  effectual  way  of  learning 
one's  self.  When  Madame  de  Genlis  described  what  she 
considered  as  a  perfect  system  of  education,  she  repre 
sented  her  models  as  taking  younger  children  to  teach 
as  a  part  of  their  own  instruction.  It  has  been  said,  that 
we  are  never  sure  that  we  know  a  thing  thoroughly,  until 
we  have  taught  it  to  another. 

If  the  duty  of  teaching  has  its  advantages,  it  also  has 
its  dangers  ;  it  is  a  very  fatiguing  occupation,  and  ought 
not  to  occupy  too  much  of  a  young  person's  time. 
Where  this  is  required  of  a  daughter,  other  home-duties 
should  be  remitted,  and  her  day  should  be  so  apportioned 
as  to  leave  her  ample  time  for  exercise  and  recreation, 
or  the  labour  may  prove  injurious  to  her  health.  It  ia 
very  seldom  that  one,  who  has  never  attempted  to  teach 
others,  can  duly  appreciate  the  labour  of  it ;  and  a 
father  so  circumstanced,  will  sometimes  think  that  as 


THE    RELATION    OF    BROTHERS    AND    SISTERS.  JoJ 

many  hours  may  be  given  to  it  as  he  gives  to  his  busi 
ness  ;  but  this  is  a  great  mistake ;  nothing  is  so  heavy  a 
tax  on  mind  and  body,  as  the  act  of  communicating  know 
ledge  to  other  minds;  and  the  more  intelligently  and 
lovingly  it  is  done,  the  greater  is  the  fatigue. 

This  duty  should  not  be  allowed  to  interfere  with  the 
further  progress  of  the  young  teacher,  for  though  it  may 
be  useful  to  go  over  old  ground,  with  those  who  are 
learning,  she  should  still  be  careful  not  to  narrow  her 
mind  down  to  the  standard  of  their  habits ;  but  refresh 
and  invigorate  it,  at  the  same  time,  by  exploring  new- 
fields  of  literature. 

Those  who  are  not  called  upon  to  teach  younger 
brothers  and  sisters,  may  yet  do  them  great  good  by- 
exercising  their  minds  in  conversation,  and  by  communi 
cating  useful  information  to  them  in  their  daily  inter 
course.  The  reverse  of  this  I  have  sometimes  observed 
with  sorrow.  I  have  seen  amiable  and  well  informed 
girls  act  towards  these  little  ones,  as  if  they  were  not  at 
all  responsible  for  the  impressions  they  made  on  their 
tender  minds.  They  would  mislead  a  young  inquirer 
by  false  information,  and  consider  it  a  good  joke  ;  or 
they  would  harrow  up  young  and  susceptible  minds  by 
frightful  stories,  Which,  though  amusing  at  the  time, 
could  not  fail  to  send  the  little  dears  trembling  to  bed, 
afraid  of  the  dark,  and  unable  to  sleep  for  terror. 
Where,  however,  the  elder  children  have  been  properly 
trained  by  the  parents,  such  mistakes  cannot  occur, 
and  where  they  have  not,  it  would  require  a  volume  to 
do  justice  to  the  subject. 


"FREELY  YE  HAVE  RECEIVED,  FREELY  GIV9 

Go  forth  among  the  poor, 

Thy  pathway  leadeth  there, 
Thy  gentle  voice  may  soothe  their  pain, 

And  blunt  the  thorns  of  care : 
Go  forth  with  earnest  zeal, 

Nor  from  the  duty  start, 
Speak  to  them  words  of  gracious  love, 

"  Blessed  are  the  poor  in  heart." 

Go  forth  among  the  sad, 

Lest  their  dark  cup  o'erflow ; 
They  have  on  earth  a  heritage 

Of  weariness  and  woe  ; 
Tears  dim  their  daily  toil, 

And  sighs  break  out  from  sleep; 
Bring  light  among  the  darkness — ss-j", 

"  Blessed  are  they  that  weep." 

Go  forth  among  the  weak 

Who  lack  the  strength  of  prayer, 
Whose  trust  is  lost  in  hopelessness, 

Whose  faith  in  deep  despair : 
And  God's  dear  words  shall  touch  their  haarti 

Like  Hermon's  holy  dew, 
"  lie  giveth  power  to  the  faint/'* 

And  will  your  strength  renew. 

Go  forth  through  all  the  earth, 

There  waiteth  work  for  you, 
The  harvest  truly  seems  most  fair, 

But  labourers  are  few. 
With  tireless — hopeful — ardent  love, 

Fulfil  your  lofty  part, 
And  yours  shall  be  the  blessing,  too, 

"  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart  " 


THE  FRIENDS: 

0»    LUXURIES    LOST   AND   HAPPINESS   WOW. 

"  Celestial  happiness  !  whene'er  she  stoops 
To  visit  earth,  one  shrine  the  goddess  finds, 
And  one  alone,  to  make  her  sweet  amends 
For  absent  heaven, — the  bosom  of  a  friend  ; 
Where  heart  meets  heart,  reciprocally  soft, 
Each  other's  pillow  to  repose  divine." 

IT  was  a  pleasant  day  in  June,  the  month  of  roses, 
when  the  young  earth  seems  to  send  on  the  balmy  air  a 
whispered  thanksgiving  to  heaven  for  her  rich  and  gentle 
beauty.  The  fresh  foliage  grows  brighter  as  the  sweet 
breath  of  the  summer  wind  plays  among  the  leaves,  and 
sportively  kisses  the  fragrance  from  the  lovely  flowers, 
wafting  it  over  the  green  meadows  and  quiet  plains. 

At  the  open  casement  of  a  white  cottage,  two  younp 
girls  were  seated  ;  one  sewing,  the  other  reading  aloud, 
yet  often  pausing  to  utter  the  elevating  thoughts  the 
volume  suggested.  They  were  about  the  same  age,  and 
might  number  eighteen  years.  The  reader  was  very 
beautiful.  Her  dark  hair  was  arranged  with  exquisite 
taste  around  her  finely  formed  head,  and  a  Grecian 
braid  confined  the  shining  ringlets  that  would  have 
shaded  too  closely  the  white  intellectual  brow.  Her 
usually  proud  face  was  now  soft  and  yielding  as  a 
child's  in  its  look  of  confidence  and  love.  A  thoughtful 
tenderness  dwelt  in  her  large  black  eye,  as  it  rested  on 
her  friend,  while  a  faint  smile  stole  over  her  lip,  telling 


238  THE   FRIENDS. 

how  hushed  was  every  unholy  feeling,  and  betraying  a 
heart  full  of  sisterly  affection. 

Her  companion,  who  possessed  no  heauty  save  that 
which  is  reflected  from  a  pure  heart,  was  seated  on  a 
low  chair  by  her  side,  and  as  she  raised  her  gentle 
countenance  to  that  of  her  friend,  it  wore  a  look  of 
almost  spiritual  loveliness. 

The  intimacy  between  Ellen  Wilbur  and  her  beautiful 
friend,  commenced  at  school.  The  latter  was  wealthy 
and  talented,  and  therefore  received  the  homage  of  her 
companions,  which  was  probably  rendered  to  her  "  acres 
of  charms;"  for  even  children  learn  to  hold  "filthy 
lucre"  in  the  same  estimation  as  their  elders. 

Gertrude  Stacy  was  the  only  daughter  of  a  rich  mer 
chant,  a  native  of  England,  who  had  early  come  to  this 
country,  where  he  married  a  poor,  but  beautiful  and 
intelligent  girl.  His  wife  lived  but  a  few  years  after 
Her  marriage,  and  Gertrude  was  a  stranger  to  a  mother's 
care  from  the  age  of  three  years.  Mr.  Stacy,  wholly 
absorbed  in  money-making,  cultivated  none  of  the  gen 
tler  affections.  He  possessed  that  calculating  spirit, 
»hich  so  often  chills  the  love  of  a  young  heart.  As  the 
fair  girl  grew  towards  womanhood,  she  yearned  for  a 
fr'.'-nd  who  might  appreciate  the  deep  feelings  known 
only  to  her  own  soul.  The  sweetness  and  naivete  of 
Ellen's  manners,  combined  with  her  intelligence,  won 
Gertrude's  admiration;  and  the  fact  that  the  friendless 
orphan  showed  less  eagerness  than  any  one  else  to  be 
come  intimate  with  her,  and  always  wore  an  aii  of  gentle 
Belf-rcspect  when  they  met,  perhaps  impelled  the  proud 
heiress  to  sue  for  the  friendship  of  one  who  was  regarded 


THE   FRIENDS.  239 

by  many  young  ladies  of  the  institution  as  to-)  poor  to 
be  blessed  with  their  familiarity. 

Since  they  had  left  school,  Gertrude  resided  in  the 
city,  where  she  shone  in  the  courts  of  fashion,  as  a 
44  bright  particular  star."  Rich,  beautiful,  arid  highly 
gifted,  she  met  with  adulation  at  every  step,  and  although 
she  received  it  with  apparent  indifference,  its  flattering 
breath  fell  upon  her  too  haughty  spirit  like  a  grateful 
incense.  She  had  few  female  friends  among  her  fashion 
able  acquaintances,  for  close  observation  had  taught  her, 
that  she  must  seek  for  friendship  where  luxury  and  self- 
indulgence  had  not  enervated  the  intellect,  and  put  to 
silence  the  low,  sweet  murmurings  of  affection  that  would 
fain  breathe  over  the  soul  like  the  music  of  heaven. 
Gertrude  possessed  strong  feelings,  and  many  noble 
qualities ;  but  these  were  often  thrown  into  the  shade 
by  one  great  fault — pride.  When  she  left  her  luxurious 
home  in  the  city,  and  found  herself  in  the  simple  white 
cottage  where  Ellen  dwelt  in  her  grandmother's  family, 
this  blemish  in  her  character  apparently  vanished,  and 
the  affections  of  her  better  nature  gushed  forth  ;  new 
thoughts  found  entrance  in  her  bosom,  and  she  felt  a 
desire  to  put  away  every  evil  thing  within  her,  and  be 
come  gentle  and  unselfish  as  her  companion. 

How  great  the  influence  of  a  friend  !  and  how  import 
ant  that  we  should  select  those  only  whose  influence  will 
deepen  in  our  hearts  the  little  goodness  that  may  have 
found  root  there,  instead  of  choking  it  with  weeds  of 
hasty  and  evil  growth  ! 

There  was  now  in  the  communion  of  the  friend's  a 
ckeper  interest  than  ever;  a  sadness  they  had  PCVCT 


240  THE   FRIENDS. 

known  before ;  they  were  about  to  be  separated  for  two 
long  years,  and  what  changes  might  not  occur  before 
they  met  again?  Many  times  their  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  as  they  dwelt  with  lingering  tenderness  on  the 
happy  hours  they  had  spent  together,  which  had  given 
BO  bright  a  glow  to  their  existence.  They  well  knew, 

"  Thought  can  dare 

The  pathless  waste,  the  viewless  air ; — 
And  though  the  roaring  seas  divide, 
Where  spirits  mingle  and  confide, 
They  form  no  interposing  bond, 
Thought  can  outstretch  e'en  these  beyond !" 

Yet,  though  such  reflections  might  lessen  the  pain  of 
separation,  still  it  was  pain. 

A  wealthy  aunt  of  Ellen's,  whose  health  idleness  and 
dissipation  had  rendered  delicate,  had  persuaded  her 
husband  that  it  was  necessary  for  her  to  cross  the  ocean, 
and  sojourn  in  a  foreign  climate,  in  order  to  recover  her 
lost  bloom.  It  was  decided  that  they  should  be  absent 
two  years,  and  Ellen  had  been  invited  by  her  aunt  to 
accompany  her  as  a  companion.  With  the  delighted 
curiosity  of  a  young  girl,  she  consented,  and  when  she 
could  forget  the  endearments  of  home,  her  heart  beat 
high  with  enthusiasm  as  she  anticipated  the  time  when 
her  feet  should  press  the  classic  soil  of  Europe. 

The  day  of  separation  at  length  came,  and  the  rosy 
light  of  morning  streamed  in  the  chamber  occupied  by 
the  friends.  They  had  risen  early,  and  hour  after  hour 
slipped  away  as  they  felt  the  luxury  of  being  alone  for 
the  last  time,  and  pouring  out  their  full  hearts  to  each 


THE    FRIENDS.  241 

other.  But  the  time  drew  near,  and,  with  arms  drawn 
closely  around  each  other,  they  knelt  at  the  bedside,  and 
the  fervency  of  that  last  prayer  hung  over  their  spirits 
long  after  the  ocean  had  divided  them. 

Two  years  passed  away,  and  during  that  time  the 
heart  of  Gertrude  Stacy  had  "  grown  familiar  with  deep 
trials  of  its  own." 

Her  father  had  imbibed  the  spirit  of  speculation,  and, 
as  was  the  case  with  many  others,  instead  of  increasing 
his  wealth,  it  tore  from  his  grasp  all  that  he  possessed. 
The  love  of  money  was  his  ruling  passion,  and  when  ho 
discovered  that  his  riches  were  lost  beyond  recall,  he 
felt  a  blow  from  which  he  never  recovered.  His  ener 
gies  seemed  to  leave  him  entirely,  and  he  sunk  into  a 
low,  desponding  state  of  mind,  which  necessarily  im 
paired  his  bodily  health.  Gertrude  was  called  upon  to 
bear  the  death  of  her  father  soon  after  the  loss  of  that 
wealth  she  had  not  known  how  to  value  until  it  was 
taken  away. 

When  Ellen  Wilbur  returned  to  her  native  land,  her 
manners  yet  frank  and  simple,  and  her  heart  still  glow 
ing  with  the  same  warm  love  towards  the  beautiful  girl 
she  had  left  with  prospects  so  fair,  Gertrude  was  poor, 
lonely,  and  an  orphan.  She  had  no  near  relatives  to 
offer  her  a  home,  and  many,  persons  she  thought  inte 
rested  in  her,  proved  cold  and  indifferent  when  she  most 
needed  friends.  Pride  impelled  her  to  shrink  from  every 
one  she  had  known  in  prosperity — even  those  who  might 
and  perhaps  would  have  aided  her.  The  unhappy  girl 
obtained  a  boarding  place  in  a  retired  part  of  the  city, 
and,  with  bitterness  in  her  bosom,  sought  and  with  diffi- 
10 


242  THE   FRIENDS. 

cultj  procured  some  employment  in  plain  sewing,  which 
barely  defrayed  her  most  urgent  expenses.  Buried  in 
loneliness,  she  brooded  morbidly  over  the  events  that 
had  so  changed  the  world  to  her.  Yet,  amid  all  her 
gloomy  thoughts  and  dark  forebodings,  when  her  mind 
reverted  to  Ellen,  a  ray  of  hope  visited  her,  and  the 
desolate  girl  longed  for  the  time  when  she  might  be 
cheered  by  the  affectionate  kindness  of  that  gentle 
being.  No  sight  she  more  desired  "  Than  face  of  faith 
ful  friend;  fairest  when  seen  in  darkest  day." 

At  last  her  wishes  were  gratified.  On  her  return 
Ellen  eagerly  sought  her  humble  residence.  With  a 
beating  heart  the  long-absent  one  ascended  the  stairs 
that  led  to  the  chamber  of  the  once  rich  heiress.  Her 
trembling  hand  was  laid  upon  the  latch,  and  yet  shs 
lingered  to  still  the  emotions  that  thrilled  her  bosom. 
She  listened  to  hear  if  any  one  was  within,  but  no  sound 
met  her  ear.  Again  her  fingers  pressed  the  latch ;  it 
yielded  to  her  touch,  and  with  a  noiseless  step  she 
entered  the  apartment.  Gertrude  sat  sewing,  appa 
rently  buried  in  painful  thought.  Her  face  was  pale 
and  thin,  and  tears  gushed  into  the  eyes  of  her  gentle 
visiter  as  she  paused  a  moment,  unobserved,  and  marked 
the  change  suffering  had  wrought  in  those  beautiful  fea 
tures. 

"Oh!  Gertrude!"  broke  huskily  from  her  lips.  And 
with  a  faint  scream  of  joy  the  astonished  girl  sprang 
from  her  chair,  and  the  long-parted  friends  were  clasped 
in  each  other's  arms..  They  wept  long  together,  and 
their  hearts  communed  more  deeply  than  if  words  had 


THE    FRIENDS.  243 

broken    that  blessed  silence.     When   they  had  seated 
themselves,  Gertrude  said,  in  a  low  tone, 

"  We  looked  for  changes,  dear  Ellen,  when  we  parted, 
but  I  little  dreamed  that  I  would  know  so  much  wretch- 
edness.  My  best  feelings  are  wasted  by  sorrow ;  and 
everything  that  was  good  and  beautiful  in  my  spirit  is 
withered  and  dead.  One  deep,  warm,  kindly  feeling 
found  a  dwelling-place  in  my  bosom ;  I  could  weep  over 
the  troubles  of  others — but  now,  I  am  changed ;  there 
is  nothing  left  of  my  former  self.  Oh  !  Ellen,  you  will 
find  nothing  in  me  to  love," — and  the  wretched  girl 
leaned  her  head  on  the  shoulder  of  her  friend,  and  gave 
way  to  a  flood  of  passionate  tears. 

Ellen  replied  only  by  drawing  her  arm  more  fondly 
around  her,  and  brushing  the  hair  from  the  hot  brow  of 
the  weeping  girl,  upon  which  she  pressed  her  lips,  while 
her  own  tears  fell  fast.  How  eloquent,  then,  was  that 
silent  caress,  the  lingering  lips  upon  the  forehead  ! 

When  Gertrude  had  ceased  weeping,  Ellen  broke  the 
silence  by  saying, 

"  Everything  appears  darker  than  it  really  is,  dearest. 
If  you  will,  you  may  be  happy  again.  Your  best  feel 
ings  are  not  wasted  ;  you  are  beginning  to  know  your 
self ;  circumstances  have  developed  the  evil  feelings  that 
appear  new  to  you,  yet  you  possessed  them  before, 
although  they  were  never  called  into  action.  Now 
that  you  are  aware  of  their  existence,  dear  Gertrude, 
overcome  them,  and  you  will  be  purer  and  happier  than 
if  they  yet  remained  in  their  unconscious  slumber.  Tho 
green  spot  in  your  soul  is  not  withered ;  dark  clouds 
have  hidden  it,  and  you  think  the  fierce  tempest  has 


244  THE   FRIENDS. 

laid  all  waste.  There  was  an  object  in  that  wild  storni ; 
it  was  to  purify  that  chosen  spot,  and  protect  it  from 
greater  ill?. 

"  '  When  pain  can't  bless,  heaven  quits  us  in  despair/ 

"  Try  to  be  resigned  to  what  God  has  ordered,  Ger 
trude,  and  forget  your  own  sufferings  in  efforts  to  be 
useful  to  others;  then  the  sun  of  true  happiness  will 
break  in  upon  your  spirit  with  its  pleasant  warmth, 
refreshing  the  new  and  delicate  germs  of  goodness,  that 
they  may  be  strengthened  by  future  storms  and  outlive 
them.  When  happiness  depends  on  external  things,  it 
must  ever  rest  on  a  broken  reed-  To  be  real  it  must 
spring  from  love  and  gentleness  within ;  then  its  clear 
light  of  purity  and  joy  may  be  shed  with  blessings  upon 
the  hearts  of  others.  Every  evil  thing  that  is  banished 
from  our  bosoms,  renders  our  reform  easier ;  and  it  is  no 
less  true  than  poetical,  that  if  it  is  our  constant  aim  to 
become  better,  the  angels  minister  unto  us,  and  impart 
to  us  their  pure  thoughts  and  heavenly  affections." 

"  Ah !  Ellen  !"  returned  Gertrude,  with  a  faint  smile, 
"I  almost  fancy  you  an  angel.  I  csmfeel  that  you  are 
good  and  pure,  and  if  I  could  always  be  writh  you,  I 
think  I  might  learn  what  true  happiness  is." 

She  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand  for  some  mo 
ments,  lost  in  deep  and  earnest  thought ;  her  brow  knit 
at  times,  but  there  was  no  bitterness  in  her  look.  At 
length  the  troubled  expression  vanished,  her  slightly 
quivering  lip  grew  firmer,  and  in  a  voice  low  and  tremu 
lous  with  its  weight  of  new-born,  elevated  feeling,  she 
said, 


THE   FRIENDS.  245 

"  I  know  it  is  easier  to  resolve  than  to  follow  a  reso 
lution  under  all  circumstances ;  yet,  if  I  may  have 
strength  from  above,  my  life  shall  no  longer  be  wasted 
in  idle  repinings.  If  1  cannot  impart  happiness  to 
others,  my  spirit  may  at  least  learn  not  to  cast  a  gloom. 
But  how  can  I  always  resist  despondency  ?  How  can 
I  stifle  every  selfish  emotion  ?  Ah  !  Ellen,  it  is  no  slight 
thing  to  change  our  very  natures." 

u  It  is  the  work  of  a  life,  dear  Gertrude,  yet  do  not 
be  discouraged ;  if  we  do  the  best  we  can,  '  angels  can 
no  more.'  But  now  let  me  turn  to  another  subject,  and 
tell  you  some  good  news ;  you  must  give  up  this  sewing, 
that  confines  you  from  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  till 
near  midnight.  My  home  shall  be  your  home " 

"  But,"  interrupted  Gertrude,  "  I  cannot  be  dependent ; 
and  even  if  I  were  willing,  the  addition  of  one  would  be 
felt  in  your  family." 

"  You  mistake  me,"  said  Ellen,  "  we  are  not  to  be 
idle.  A  good  school  is  very  much  needed  in  our  vici 
nity,  and  if  you  will  consent,  we  will  take  upon  ourselves 
the  office  of  school  madams.  I  think  we  can  soon  get 
accustomed  to  wearing  our  dignity-caps.  What  is  your 
opinion?" 

Tears  sprung  into  the  eyes  of  Gertrude,  as  she 
replied, 

"  You  are  not  compelled  to  labour,  Ellen,  and  it  is 
only  for  my  sake  this  school  is  proposed.  Tell  me,  would 
you  have  thought  of  it,  if  I  yet  possessed  the  luxuries  I 
once  did  ?" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  not,"  answered  her  friend,  with  a 
I'ruiik  and  playful  smile,  "  so  I  am  indebted  to  you  for 


246  THE   FRIENDS. 

the  brightest  idea  that  ever  entered  my  dull  cranium. 
But  we  shall  be  perfectly  happy,  I  am  sure,  Gertrude ; 
we  3an  be  together  every  day,  and  we  must  make  our 
duties  a  scurc  *  of  pleasure." 

A  smile,  grateful,  yet  tender  and  subdued  in  its  love 
liness,  passed  over  the  face  of  Gertrude ;  a  fountain  of 
purer  feelings  was  opened  in  her  heart,  and  it  thrilled 
with  new-born  hopes,  and  yet  was  chastened  with  a  pen 
sive  fear,  lest  her  late  despondency  might  banish  her 
half-sad  yet  sweet  emotions. 

Night  warned  Ellen  to  depart,  and  the  fair  girls 
separated  with  the  pure  halo  of  disinterested  friendship 
around  them. 

A  few  weeks  after,  on  a  little  house  in  a  certain  town, 
a  new  sign  might  be  seen,  bearing  these  words,  "  Semi 
nary  for  Young  Ladies."  Within,  a  pleasing  scene  was 
presented.  In  one  corner  our  friend  Ellen  was  seated, 
her  sweet  countenance  bright  with  happy  feelings.  She 
was  gently  encouraging  to  greater  efforts  in  spelling  half 
a  dozen  female  urchins,  who  were  grouped  around  her ; 
arid  when  a  ludicrous  mistake  from  some  child,  too 
eager  to  display  her  abilities,  met  her  ear,  a  quick  mis 
chievous  glance  at  Gertrude,  and  a  hard-suppressed 
Bmile,  betrayed  a  teacher  not  yet  familiar  with  her  occu 
pation.  The  innocent  children  clung  to  her,  and  looked 
up  in  her  kind  face  with  that  confidence  they  always 
manifest  towards  those  who  treat  them  with  uniform 
tenderness. 

Not  far  distant,  Gertrude  directed  a  class  in  painting, 
and  only  those  who  are  familiar  with  the  pencil  can  tell 
with  what  anxious  delight  she  marked  the  improvement 


THE   FRIENDS.  247 

of  one  pupil  in  a  favourite  piece,  or  how  she  longed  to 
seize  the  brush  and  with  a  few  careless  touches  remodel 
a  landscape  another  poor  girl  was  half-discouraged  over. 
The  face  of  the  lovely  mistress  wore  a  look  of  cheerful 
dignity.  One  word,  spoken  in  a  kind,  affectionate  tone, 
was  sufficient  to  gain  implicit  obedience  to  her  com 
mands  ;  and  the  warm  interest  she  manifested  towards 
all  under  her  care,  rendered  her  beloved  without  any 
feelings  of  jealousy. 

Every  day,  when  the  school  was  dismissed,  the  young 
}eachers  sallied  forth,  their  steps  impede!  by  some  rosy- 
cheeked  damsels,  who  invariably  sued  for  the  honour  of 
Caking  their  hands  and  walking  by  the  "madams." 

Experience  taught  Gertrude  that  the  power  of  being 
useful  and  making  others  happy  gave  her  a  far  more 
abiding  joy  than  she  had  ever  felt  when  surrounded  by 
luxury,  and  seeking  only  self-gratification  ;  a  closer  in 
timacy  rendered  the  friends  more  deeply  attached,  and 
no  bligh*  ever  marred  the  beauty  of  their  perfect  friend 
ship. 


WORDS. 

UH,  neTer  say  a  careless  word 

Hath  not  the  power  to  pain  ; 
The  shaft  may  ope  some  hidden  wound 

That  closes  not  again. 
Weigh  well  those  light-winged  messengers 5 

God  marked  your  heedless  word, 
And  with  it,  too,  the  falling;  tear, 

The  heart-pang  that  it  stirred. 

"Words  ! — What  are  words?     A  simple  wort 

Hath  spells  to  call  the  tears 
That  long  have  lain  a  sealed  fount, 

Unclosed  through  mournful  years. 
Back  from  the  unseen  sepulchre, 

A  word  hath  summoned  forth 
A  form — that  hath  its  place  no  rnora 

Among  the  things  of  earth. 

Words — heed  them  well ;  some  whispered  one 

Hath  yet  a  power  to  fling 
A  shadow  on  the  brow ;  the  soul 

In  agony  to  wring ; 
A  name — forbidden,  or  forgot, 

That  sometimes,  unawares, 
Murmurs  upon  our  wakening  lips, 

And  mingles  in  our  prayers. 

Oh,  words — sweet  words  !     A  blessing  comei 

Softly  from  kindly  lips  ;  .     . 
Tender,  endearing  tones,  that  break 

The  spirit's  drear  eclipso. 


TFIE  MERCHANT'S  SON.  249 

Oh  !  arc  there  not  some  cherished  tones 

In  the  deep  heart  enshrined, 
Uttered  but  once — they  passed — and  left 

A  track  of  light  behind? 

Wards  !— What  are  words  ?     Ah  !  know'st  thou  nU 

The  household  names  of  love  ? 
Th«  thousand  tender  memories, 

That  float  their  graves  above? 
!*<>ng  buried  by  the  world's  cold  tread, 

Yet  mid  the  crowd  they  rise, 
And  smile,  as  angel-guests  would  snr.le, 

With  gentle  earnest  eyes. 


THE   MERCHANT'S  SON. 

"  To  weave  bright  visions,  and  to  kneel 

And  worship  in  their  ray, 
And  see  them  vanish  as  we  /^aze 
Like  hues  of  parting  day." 

"  Dreams  shall  bind  my  soul  no  longer, 

Darkly  to  the  valley  c)od ; 
Ever  shall  its  flight  grow  stronger 
Soaring  upward  to  my  God." — n.  M. 

A  VOUNG  man  of  prepossessing  appearance  \?a:  pacing 
8 \j\\ly  uiid  thoughtfully  up  and  down  the  parlov'.A  of  his 
father's  house.  The  clear,  softened  light  of  /-he  full 
inoon  streamed  in  upon  the  furniture,  and  reve.  ied  occa 
sionally  the  expression  of  his  countenance,  \shi?h  was 
serious.  Once  in  a  while  a  smile  broke  over  his  f<  i*t ares. 
as  he  appeared  briefly  to  yield  to  the  pKy  of  fancy. 


250  THE  MERCHANT'S  SON 

"  So  I  am  indeed  twenty-one  !"  he  said,  musingly  ; 
"  this  is  the  day  I  have  looked  forward  to,  from  boyhood, 
as  the  period  when  I  should  be  free  as  the  wind.  What 
are  my  objects  of  pursuit  ?  What  have  they  been  ?  Oh, 
Fame !  I  could  die  if  tby  silver  trumpet  would  ring  cut 
her  loudest  blast  for  me.  I  will  be  no  medium  character ; 
I  will  either  play  a  conspicuous  part  on  the  world's  great 
stage,  or  I  will  sink  into  nothingness.  I  have  been  sin 
obedient  son  to  a  father  who  means  well,  but  judges 
•wrongfully  of  me.  He  has  kept  me  cooped  up  in  a 
counting-room,  lest,  as  he  says,  I  should  become  a  sim 
pleton  or  a  poet.  I  have  borne  it  silently,  although  it 
galled  me  to  the  quick.  God  forbid  that  I  should  have 
pained  his  heart,  before  I  had  a  man's  right  to  act  in 
freedom, — to  cut  out  my  own  path  in  the  world  !  And 
yet — and  yet" — the  young  man's  lip  curved  bitterly,  as 
he  paused  a  moment,  "  he  has  drawn  the  rein  almost  too 
tight.  I  have  not  been  allowed  the  choice  of  doing  what 
I  like.  Money — money — money,  when  will  the  time 
come  that  it  will  not  be  worshipped  ?  I  hate  it.  I  hate 
that  grasping  after  gold.  How  can  an  immortal  soul  so 
far  forget  its  high  destiny  as  to  make  the  clutching  of 
golden  coin  the  great  aim  of  existence  ?  But  there  are 
thousands  who  seem  fit  for  nothing  else." 

Arthur  Griswold  seated  himself  on  the  sofa,  passed 
his  hand  through  his  hair  repeatedly,  sighed  profoundly, 
muttered  something  about  the  generality  of  people  being 
such  idiots,  then  with  a  "  heigho  !  heigho  !  heigho  !"  ho 
leaned  his  head  back  against  the  wall  in  silence. 

"But  money  is  a  fine  thing  after  all!"  he  said,  half 
Binilmg,  as  after  a  long  pause  he  resumed  his  train  of 


THE  MERCHANT'S  SON.  251 

thought.  "  It  is  well  I  can  clutch  a  little  myself  just 
now ;  I  fear  father,  when  he  learns  ray  resolution,  will 
request  me  to  keep  my  distance  from  his  coffers.  Let  it 
be  so !  I  think  I  can  get  along.  Yes,  my  life  of  close 
study  shall  soon  commence ;  and  then — what  shall  my 
glorious  future  be?  Great  as  a  poet's  dream:  there  u 
a  power  within  me ;  but  alas !  it  is  a  smouldering  spark 
which  may  never  burst  forth  into  a  flame,  and  light  up 
clearly  the  c  chambers  of  mine  imagery.'  Such  thoughts 
shall  not  be  indulged  !  I  will!  Those  two  little  words 
shall  be  the  beacon  stars,  to  lead  me  forward  to  the 
accomplishment  of  my  purposes.  Difficulties  shall  vanish 
before  the  might  of  a  strong  will.  To  resolve  and  to 
accomplish,  shall  be  one  thing  with  me." 

"  Why,  Arthur,  are  you  all  alone  ?"  said  the  soft, 
musical  voice  of  Lucy  Griswold,  as  she  entered  the  room. 
She  seated  herself  on  the  sofa  next  to  her  brother,  and 
rested  her  lovely  head  confidingly  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  I  was  all  alone,  dear,"  he  replied. 

"  Indulging  in  beautiful  imaginings,  I  suppose  ?"  sug 
gested  Lucy. 

"Not  remarkably  beautiful." 

"  Well,  then,  come  stand  by  the  window,  and  look  out 
upon  this  poetic  sky.  If  fancy  does  not  wave  her  wand 
for  you,  and  wake  up  imaginings,  sweet  and  dreaming, 
you  are  no  poet.  Just  banish  earthly  thoughts,  and  rove 
anywhere  and  everywhere,  as  I  do,  at  such  a  lovely 
hour." 

"  I  will,  to  oblige  you,"  answered  Arthur,  leading  her 
to  the  window,  and  kissing  her  pure  brow  with  a  kind 
brother's  deep  affection  That  fair  young  girl  was  the 


252  THE  MERCHANT'S  SON, 

only  one  t:>  whom  lie  poured  forth  the  yearning  aspira 
tions  of  his  soul.  Her  sweet  influence  breathed  over  hia 
spirit  like  a  balmy  air,  and  hushed  it  into  quietness.  She 
was  almost  an  idol  to  him ;  she'  understood,  appreciated, 
and  sympathized  with  him ;  while  all  her  actions  seemed 
to  be  a  living  prayer  that  he  should  become  pure  and 
good.  And  yet  she  was  rather  a  wayward,  mischievous 
being,  when  she  took  it  into  her  head  to  be  so.  The 
spirit  of  mirth  peeped  out  of  her  laughing  eyes  some 
what  too  often,  as  her  grave  grandmother  assured  her. 
But  she  was  silent  now,  as  well  as  Arthur.  It  was,  in 
deed,  the  hour  for  fancy  to  give  reins  to  her  darling 
reveries, — for  the  witchery  of  romance  to  steal  into  the 
heart.  You  could,  under  its  power,  have  rolled  back 
the  tide  of  time,  and  have  planted  your  footsteps  in 
great  Rome, — you  could  have  gazed  up  at  her  softly- 
brilliant  sky,  revealing  her  thousand  splendours.  You 
could  have  revelled  in  the  once  sunlit  streets  of  ancient 
Pompeii,  or  have  trod  the  classic  ground  of  Greece.  The 
past  might  have  been  before  you,  or  the  sunny  future, 
with  its  rainbow  hopes,  its  glorious  dreams,  its  flowers 
of  love  and  gladness  flung  at  your  feet.  Hope,  delicious 
hope,  the  gay  intruder,  the  wild  deluder,  she  would  have 
stolen  on  the  wings  of  the  softly-dreaming  air. — she 
would  have  poured  her  laughing  light  upon  your  bosom, 
as  the  zephyr  plays  over  the  unfolding  petals  of  the 
eun-kissed  rose.  All  this  might  have  happened  if  you 
were  young,  dear  reader ;  for  people  strangely  forget 
these  romping  fancy-flights,  if  care  but  press  her  good- 
for-nothing  fingers  upon  the  bounding  heart.  Youth ! 
how  blest  thou  art,  with  thy  fresh,  glad  thoughts,  thy 


THE  MERCHANT'S  SON.  253 

witching  dreams,  breathing  their  spell  over  the  untram 
melled  heart !     How  dost  thou  roam  over  every  sunny 
§pot,  and  make  all  things  bright  with  the  touch  of  thine 
own  fairy  wand !     All  things  happy  will  be  possible  to 
thee— all  things  wished  for  will  surely  press  into  thy 
service,  begging  to  twine  around  thy  brow  the  garland 
of  a  proud,  bright  destiny  !    How  dost  thou  laugh,  when 
the  aged  lip  of  experience  would  foretell  thee  a  tale  of 
thine  own  blighted  hopes !     Clouds  and  sunlight  thou 
hast  known;   but  the  April  smile  ever  chid  back  the 
impetuous  tear,  and  bade  thee  see  how  the  shining  drops 
freshened  the  beauty  of  earth  and  sky.     Thy  heart  is 
free ;  and,  if  ever  the  mist  comes,  it  looks  upward  and 
around,  and  smiles  to  see  the  sunshine  breaking,  and  bring 
ing  back  to  thee  all  thy  clustering  joys.  Why  may  not  the 
heart  be  always  young,  though  wrinkles  drive  away  the 
smoothness  from  the  brow,  and  take  from  the  lip  its  rosy 
}lue? — though  silver  thread  the  shining  locks,  and  beauty 
depart  from  the  wasting  features  ?    May  not  the  undying 
soul  retain  its  youth,  so  long  as  we  are  blessed  with  our 
faculties  ?     May  it  not  grow  stronger  and  greater  as  it 
nears  its  everlasting  goal  ?     May  not  its  capabilities  for 
happiness  increase  by  a  proper  use  of  the  gifts  which 
God  has  bestowed,  by  careful  culture,  by  refreshing  from 
the  dews  of  heaven  ?     Surely,  surely,  it  may  be  so  !    Wo 
drive  from  us  our  youth  of  soul :  storms  come  but  to  clear 
away  tls  darkness,  and  to  show  us  depths  within  that 
Heaven  may  fill  with  joy.     Then  let  our  course  be  on 
ward.     Still  be  our  dreams  bright  and  joyous ;  still  let 
hope  cast  her  halo  around  us,  still  let  her  be  a  gay  in- 
trulcr,  but  chasten  her  gently  if  she  be  the  wild  dcluder 


254  THE  MERCHANT'S  SON. 

of  earlier  days.  Bid  her  not  tell  thee  of  selfish  visions. 
Ask  her  to  breathe  a  fond  spell  over  all  thou  lovest,  over 
every  breaking  heart,  over  the  whole  broad  earth,  which 
bears  not  a  soul  that  thou  lovest  not.  Tell  her  the 
whole  world  is  thine,  that  all  God's  creatures  are  thy 
brethren  and  sisters.  Whisper  her  to  raise  her  throne 
in  every  downcast  bosom,  though  she  should  forsake 
thine.  Will  she  forsake  thee?  Oh,  no!  Thy  heart 
shall  be  more  light  than  when  thy  guileless  childhood 
was  most  full  of  innocent  joy ;  more  happy  shalt  thou 
be  than  when  earlier  youth  was  thrilling  thee  with  its 
gushing  gladness.  After  long  indulging  in  revery, 
Arthur  roused  himself,  and  related  all  his  plans  and  pro 
jects  to  his  sister.  He  was  to  break  off  all  connexion 
with  his  father's  business,  and  enter  college  imme 
diately. 

"  But,  Arthur,  what  will  father  say  ?  This  thing  is 
very  sudden  to  him ;  he  is  not  prepared  for  it." 

"  That  I  cannot  help,  Lucy.  If  I  had  spoken  of  it 
before,  it  would  only  have  taken  from  his  enjoyment." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  what  to  say  about  it ;  I  think 
you  ought  to  be  a  student ;  and,  'if  you  feel  that  you 
are  doing  right,  don't  be  checked  by  anything  or  any 
body.  I  will  do  my  prettiest  to  soften  father's  displea 
sure." 

"  I  know  that,  Lucy." 

The  next  morning,  with  a  firm  but  slow  step,  young 
Griswold  entered  his  father's  counting-room.  "  Well, 
Arthur,"  exclaimed  the  merchant,  "you  are  twenty-one 
now.  You  have  not  as  much  ambition  in  regard  to  busi 
ness  as  I  wish  you  had.  You  don't  seem  to  care  whether 


THE  MERCHANT'S  SON. 

you  become  one  of  the  firm  or  not ;  but  you  have  always 
performed  your  part  promptly." 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  become  a  partner,  father." 

"Why  not?"  questioned  Mr.  Griswold,  in  a  disap 
pointed  tone. 

"I  am  of  age  now,  father,"  said  Arthur,  speaking 
with  an  effort.  "  I  never  intend  to  be  a  merchant." 

u  Arthur!" 

"  I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  your  wishes,  sir,  by  the 
course  I  have  decided  upon ;  but  you  are  aware  that  the 
idea  of  being  a  merchant  was  always  repugnant  to  me." 

"  I  thought  you  had  overcome  that  boyish  notion." 

"No,  sir." 

"  I  must  say,  Arthur  Griswold,  that  you  have  acted 
very  ungenerously ;  very  little  as  I  ever  thought  a  son 
of  mine  would  act."  There  were  a  few  moments  of  stern 
silence ;  Mr.  Griswold's  lip  was  firmly  compressed,  and 
the  severity  of  deep  anger  was  in  the  steady  gaze  which 
he  riveted  upon  his  son's  countenance.  "  I  should  at 
least  have  thought  you  could  have  been  frank  enough  to 
have  prepared  me  for  this." 

"  It  was  from  no  want  of  frankness,  sir,  that  I  did 
not  speak  of  it.  I  knew  that  your  views  and  mine  dif 
fered  on  many  points.  My  future  course  was  firmly 
decided  upon;  I  was  fully  aware  that  you  would  not 
approve  of  it;  I  had  failed  too  many  times  in  trying  to 
change  your  opinion.  My  only  reason  for  not  telling 
jiy  plans,  was  to  avoid  opposition,  and  any  uneasiness 
on  your  part,  until  the  time  actually  arrived." 

"I  am  deeply  obliged  for  your  tender  care,"  said  Mr, 


256  THE  MERCHANT'S  SON. 

Griswold,  bowing,  with  a  curving  lip.  "  I  suppose  a 
longer  conference  is  not  necessary." 

"Not  if  it  is  unpleasant  to  you,  father."  Arthur 
Griswold  possessed  a  true  poet's  soul  in  one  respect,  at 
least ;  his  heart  was  warm  with  strong  affections — he  was 
as  sensitive  as  a  woman  in  feeling.  After  one  long, 
eager  look  at  his  father's  face,  he  slightly  inclined  his 
head,  and  left  the  counting-room. 

"Don't  look  so  melancholy,  Arthur!"  exclaimed 
Lucy,  running  out  in  the  hall  to  meet  him  on  his  return, 
She  had  been  watching  for  him,  to  hear  how  her  father 
received  the  unexpected  and  unpleasing  intelligence  of 
his  decision. 

"Even  worse  than  I  expected — worse  than  I  ex 
pected,"  said  Arthur,  entering  the  parlour,  and  throwing 
himself  into  a  chair.  He  remained  some  moments  lost 
in  deep  thought,  his  face  bent  forward,  and  resting  on 
his  hands.  Lucy  eyed  him,  and  bethought  herself  that 
it  would  never  do  for  him  to  yield  to  discouraged  feelings. 
Dropping  on  her  knees  before  him,  with  playful  grace 
she  drew  away  his  hands,  and,  looking  up  in  his  eye?, 
with  a  smile  at  once  arch  and  tender,  said,  "Eve's 
curiosity, — brother  mine.  Tell  me  all  he  said,  and  all 
you  said." 

Arthur  related  every  word  of  the  brief  conversation 
that  had  passed ;  then,  with  some  bitterness,  he  said, 
"  I  knew  that  father  would  be  both  disappointed  and 
displeased,  but  I  certainly  had  no  idea  that  he  would 
think  my  conduct  unworthy." 

A  slight,  quick  flush  of  indignation  passed  over  Lucy's 


THE    MERCHANT'S    SON.  25V 

face,  but  she  replied  gently,  "  He  don't  understand  you, 
Arthur." 

"  And  never  will." 

"  He  shall  understand  you  in  one  respect,"  said  Lucy, 
with  an  expression  of  proud  determination,  as  she  roso 
from  her  kneeling  position.  4*  He  shall  understand  that 
your  heart  is  as  worthy  and  generous  a  one" — she  paused, 
for  she  was  not  in  the  habit  of  telling  people  their  good 
qualities,  when  she  thought  they  already  possessed  as 
much  knowledge  on  the  subject  as  would  answer  their 
purposes,  She  resumed  cheerfully,  "  Constant  dropping 
will  wear  away  a  stone,  so  I  will  drop  a  good  word  for 
you  in  father's  ear  at  the  most  propitious  moments  ;  and 
never  fear  but  what  his  displeasure  will  be  displaced  by 
deeper  effect  ion  than  ever.  You  will  be  thought  of 
more  loniently  in  your  absence.  So  don't  let  gloomy 
thoughts  disturb  you  an  instant.  When  shall  you  leave 
us?" 

"  In  about  a  week." 

"  So  soon?"  and  the  young  girl  immediately  descended 
from  her  elevated  position  as  comforter.  She  burst  into 
tears,  and  then  it  was  her  brother's  turn  to  cheer  and 
console.  It  was  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  say,  "  Don't 
go !"  but  she  held  back  the  words. 

The  evening  before  young  Griswold's  departure  had 
arrived,  the  brother  and  sister  were  again  alone  in  the 
parlour,  sitting  by  the  window.  It  was  a  calm  starlight 
evening,  and  there  was  a  sad  quiet  in  the  hearts  of 
both.  The  merchant  had  not  spoken  one  word  of  harsh 
reproach  to  his  son  since  the  disclosure  of  his  determina 
tion,  but  there  was  a  measured  politeness  in  his  manner 
17 


258  THE  MERCHANT'S  SON. 

that  fell  chillingly  upon  the  warm  heart  of  Arthur.  The 
hearty  joke  and  cheerful  approving  laugh  had  been 
banished  from  the  family  circle  during  the  past  week. 
The  sweet  glad  eyes  of  Lucy  had  not  wandered  around 
with  a  glance  of  merry  meaning.  Mrs.  Griswold  was 
an  affectionate  mother,  but  she  was  not  remarkably  tena 
cious  of  any  views  of  her  own ;  she  thought  just  as  her 
husband  did,  and,  therefore,  sighed  profoundly  over 
Arthur's  strange  whim. 

"Lucy,"  said  Arthur,  in  a  low  tone,  "have  there 
never  been  times  with  you  when  you  felt  as  if  there  was 
an  immensity  hanging  upon  a  present  moment, — felt  as 
if  there  was  coming  a  change,  a  turning  of  your  des 
tiny?" 

"I  have  felt  so,"  replied  the  young  girl;  "and 
changes  have  come,  but  perhaps  no  outward  changes. 
External  changes  are  nothing  to  the  turning  of  the  spi 
rit's  destiny.  Arthur,  dear  Arthur !"  and  she  clasped 
his  hand  with  fervent  feeling,  "  you  are  going  from  home 
now — you  will  have  no  mother  and  sister  to  bless  you, 
and  awaken  your  gentlest  sympathies.  Would  to  Heaven 
my  prayers  could  change  you !" 

"  Change  me  !"  said  Arthur,  almost  starting;  "how, 
Lucy?" 

"  You  are  entering  life  as  millions  do,  full  of  ambi 
tious  dreams,  eager  to  bind  around  your  brows  the 
wreath  of  fame.  It  seems  a  glorious  thing  to  you  to  be 
called  great.  But  your  aims  are  far  below  the  dignity 
of  an  immortal  spirit.  Be  great,  Arthur,  whether  any 
one  knows  it  or  not.  Rule  your  own  spirit  with  the 
etern,  steady  rod  of  truth.  Shrink  from  no  ordeal  that 


THE  MERCHANT'S  SON.  259 

may  develop  and  try  the  strength  within  you.  Turn 
every  inciden  t  of  your  life  to  some  good  purpose ;  believe 
and  trust  that  Providence  will  guide  you  better  than  you 
can  lead  yourself.  Let  your  fellow-creatures  have  cause 
to  bless  you,  whether  their  praises  meet  your  ear  or 
not." 

"  God  grant  I  may  become  all  you  ask,  my  own 
Lucy !"  Arthur  answered  solemnly.  "If  I  do  not 
realize  your  hopes,  it  will  be  no  fault  of  yours.  You 
have  been  a  protecting  angel  to  me ;  you  have  been 
always  ready  to  bear  with  and  comfort  me,  when  others 
blamed.  You  have  been  the  only  human  being  wrho  ever 
sympathized  with  me  fully  and  frankly." 

"And  what  have  you  been  to  me,  Arthur?"  asked 
his  sister  affectionately.  "  You  have  always  been  a  lion 
in  my  cause.  I  have  often  thought  you  took  my  part 
when  I  deserved  a  scolding." 

"  Then  we  arrive  at  the  very  evident  fact,  that  we 
are  two  wonderfully  excellent  beings,"  said  Arthur, 
laughing. 

"  Exactly  so,"  was  the  smiling  reply. 

Hour  after  hour  glided  by  unnoticed,  for  Arthur  and 
Lucy  were  too  deeply  engaged  in  serious  conversation  to 
heed  the  flight  of  time.  They  dwelt  upon  their  childish 
days,  and  then  turned  to  the  deeper  and  stronger  im 
pulses  which  had  been  developed  as  each  succeeding 
year  rolled  on.  A  half-regretful  tenderness  was  in  their 
hearts,  as  they  realized  that  they  were  indeed  entering 
life, — though  its  cares  and  strong  responsibilities  should 
sink  heavily  upon  their  spirits,  there  could  be  no  shrink 
ing  back  to  their  childhood.  For  every  wrong  action 


260  THE  MERCHANT'S  SON. 

committed,  they  themselves  were  responsible  ;  they  could 
not  with  light-hearted  carelessness  throw  the  blame  upon 
older  persons,  or  pass  it  idly  by.  Though  the  bi  Dther 
and  sister  were  both  naturally  gay,  and  perhaps  a  little 
wild,  still  there  was  a  vein  of  deep  though tfulness  in  the 
character  of  each,  which  often  called  upon  them  to 
pause  and  reflect.  The  right  influence  of  that  loving 
Bister  was  felt ;  it  was  with  holier  emotions  awakened 
in  his  bosom — with  pure  and  high  resolves — that  the 
young  votary  at  the  shrine  of  Fame  parted  from  his 
Bister  that  night. 

"Farewell,  Lucy,"  said  Arthur,  turning  to  his  sister 
the  next  morning,  after  he  had  bidden  his  parents  adieu. 
He  clasped  her  hand  tightly  in  his  own,  and  spoke  in  a 
choked  voice.  She  cast  herself  in  his  arms,  and  the 
Bobs  which  she  had  tried  hard  to  repress  under  the  stern 
eye  of  her  father  burst  forth  unchecked.  "  Weep  for 
me  when  you  are  alone,  darling,  if  you  will,  and  pray 
for  me,"  whispered  Arthur ;  "  I  will  yet  become  all  you 
desire.  Father  shall  yet  know  that  I  do  not  act  from 
the  idle  whim  of  an  effeminate  boy.  Lucy,  dear  Lucy  ! 
tell  me  once  more  that  you  bless  me  before  I  go  forth 
into  the  world."  The  young  man  had  commanded  him- 
Belf  by  a  strong  eifort ;  but  now  he  bowed  his  head  upon 
his  sister's  shoulder,  and  wept  like  a  child.  An  expres 
sion  radiant  with  affection  flitted  briefly  over  Lucy's  fair 
young  face,  as  she  replied,  in  a  low  tone  of  tremulous 
sweetness,  "  I  do  bless  you,  Arthur.  I  shall  always. 
Oh,  may  our  Father  above  smile  upon  you !" 

It  was  with  a  strong  heart  and  a  determined  will  that 
Arthur  Griswold  engaged  in  his  studies.  But  the  \vays 


THE  MERCHANT'S  SON.  ?6\ 

of  Providence  are  not  like  our  ways.     Often  our  most 
arduous  efforts  bring  but  little  to  pass;  yet  we  should 
not  repine,  for,  if  we  have  done  all  we  can  do,  that  little 
is  just  as  much  as  it  should  be.     Not  so  felt  the  young 
student.     Five  years  had  passed  over  his  head  since  he 
had  begun  to  walk  in  the  path  marked  out  by  himself. 
Where  were  his  dreams  of  ambition, — his  visions  of  phi 
lanthropy  ?     Where  were  the  thoughts  he  had  sent  out 
into  the  world,  hoping  to  make  deep  echoes  in  a  thousand 
hearts?     They  had  gone  forth  indeed,  the   cherished 
idols  of  his  imagination,  but  where  was  the  sympathy  he 
was  to  meet  with  ?     He  found  it  not ;  and  not  until  he 
saw  how  heedlessly  his  poems  were  passed  by,  did  he 
realize  the  value  he  had  placed,  almost  unknowingly  to 
himself,  upon  the  smiles  of  a  thoughtless  multitude.     II: 
had  entered  into  no  profession ;  and,  as  each  slow  year 
had  travelled  on,  the  young  poet  had  hoped  with  all  the 
ardour  of  an  enthusiastic  spirit  that  fickle  fortune  would 
yet  reward  his  muse.     His  habits  had  greatly  changed 
since  he  had  left  the  counting-room  for  the  study ;  his 
time  was  not  methodically  employed ;  he  was  often  sad 
and  depressed.     And  yet  he  raised  his  heart  upward, 
and  endeavoured  to  do  well.     Apparently  he  had  not 
improved,  but  in  reality  he  had  been  learning  good  but 
painful  lessons.     Bitter  trial  had  taught  him  to  look 
upon  the  world,  upon  men  and  things,  as  they  are — not 
as  they  seem.     Lucy  was  still  the  same  fond  sister ;  his 
mother's  smile  was  kind  but  tremulous,  for  she  thought 
her  poor  Arthur  was  sadly  changed.     His  father  never 
reproached  him ;  he  was  sometimes  pleasant  and  cheer 
ful  with  him,  but  it  was  not  the  frank  cheerfulness  of 


202  THE  MERCHANT'S  SON. 

other  days.  The  warm,  hearty  grasp  of  the  hand,  the 
cheering  words  from  a  father's  lips,  "  Well  done,  my 
boy  !"  were  no  longer  his  own.  Since  the  day  he  left 
home  for  college,  his  father's  house  had  never  been  his 
permanent  residence.  One  soft  evening  at  twilight, 
Arthur  sat  alone  in  his  chamber,  watching  the  faint  stars 
as  they  came  out  in  the  pale  blue  sky.  A  light,  caress 
ing  breeze  lifted  the  hair  from  his  white  forehead,  as 
he  leaned  back  against  the  window-frame,  in  deep  mus 
ing.  His  thoughts  were  somewhat  sad,  and  yet  there 
was  more  strength  in  his  heart  than  he  had  known  in  a 
long  time.  He  had  that  afternoon  been  in  the  society 
of  his  sister,  and  the  influence  of  her  gentle  soul  was 
still  upon  him.  She  had  married,  but  old  affections  were 
as  dear  to  her  as  ever.  She  had  strongly  urged  upon 
him  the  necessity  of  an  active  and  useful  life;  and  he 
was  glad  to  hear  her  speak  thus,  for  his  own  views  had 
been  changing  fast,  of  late.  It  was  five  long  years 
before  the  dazzling  bubble  of  worldly  fame  had  lost  to 
him  its  hues  of  radiant  light.  With  something  like  a 
smile  playing  over  his  lip,  he  mused,  half  aloud,  "  I  have 
indeed  been  pursuing  a  bubble ;  even  if  I  had  obtained 
it,  it  would  have  burst  in  my  grasp,  showing — empti 
ness."  He  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand,  and  over  his 
thoughtful  features  a  deeper  shade  fell :  he  cast  a  retro 
spective  eye  upon  the  past,  it  seemed  almost  a  waste ; 
with  a  sigh,  he  murmured, 

"  I  fear  I  have  been  self-deceived — I  have  not  looked 
iny  motives  in  the  face.  I  have  endeavoured  to  delude 
myself  with  the  idea  that  I  was  trying  to  benefit  others 
by  the  outpourings  of  my  brain,  when  at  the  bottom  I 


THE  MERCHANT'S  SON.  263 

most  deeply  yearned  for  applause, — it  was  that  \vliich 
my  selfish  soul  craved.  Such  dreams  shall  no  longer  be 
mine;"  and,  Lowing  his  head,  the  poet  struggled  in 
silence  with  the  feelings  within. 

About  an  hour  after,  he  arose  from  his  seat  by  the 
window,  and  lighting  a  lamp,  he  placed  himself  at  his 
writing-table  and  opened  his  long-neglected  journal. 
Before  writing,  he  breathed  forth  a  deep  and  silent 
prayer.  His  eyes  were  upraised,  full  of  light,  and  the 
rich  g'ow  of  beautiful  thought  upon  his  countenance  was 
tempered  by  the  quiet  repose  on  his  closed  lips.  Taking 
a  pen,  he  wrote  as  follows : — 

u  June  20th.  What  satisfaction  in  a  dying  hour  can 
be  as  substantial  as  the  remembrance  of  a  well-spent 
life  ?  We  must  combat  with  ourselves  and  gently  aid 
others.  What  is  life's  lesson  ?  To  learn  what  we  are, 
and  then  to  conquer.  Oh,  God  !  give  me  a  stern  spirit 
to  go  forth  unflinchingly,  developing  the  life  thou  hast 
given  me.  Aid  me  to  trample  on  the  clinging  reveries 
that  twine  around  my  heart ;  they  come  almost  imper 
ceptibly,  and,  like  links  in  a  chain,  they  will  not  be 
broken  and  parted.  Banish  from  my  soul  the  enervat 
ing  weight  of  idle,  brooding  feeling.  Grant  that  I  may 
be  frank  with  my  own  heart !  will  it  not  at  last  grow 
pure  beneath  thy  searching  eyes  ?  Is  not  thy  good  p -ro- 
vidence  over  me  now,  guiding  every  minute  action  and 
thought?  may  I  realize  it— may  I  trust  in  Thee !  Guard 
me  from  wandering  from  thy  fold.  G:ve  mo  an  earnest 
love  of  usefulness,  a  willingness  to  laoour  in  anything 
that  duty  bids.  Fill  me  with  humility  and  heavenly 


264  THE  MERCHANT'S  SON. 

charity — may  I  exert  a  pure  influence  !  Would  that  my 
spirit  was  strong  as  a  martyr's  and  meek  as  a  babe's  !" 

After  thus  briefly  noting  down  his  thoughts,  Arthur 
sought  the  repose  he  needed  after  the  excitement  of 
deep  and  strong  emotion.  He  was  strengthened  by  what 
he  had  written ;  for  to  bring  out  good  thoughts  in  a 
tangible  form  both  soothes  and  strengthens. 

Ten  years  more  rolled  by,  and  our  poet  was  a  lawyer 
of  eminence.  He  had  entered  the  profession  and  he 
had  laboured  faithfully ;  he  was,  what  is  rarely  seen,  a 
lawyer  at  once  successful,  upright,  and  useful.  O.ie 
cheerful  day  in  autumn,  a  multitude  was  hastening  to 
the  court-house  in  our  city,  to  listen  to  a  case  which  had 
excited  much  interest.  Justice  was  on  one  side,  wealth 
on  the  other.  Griswold  had  given  his  services,  where 
he  could  hope  for  but  little  reward,  to  the  weaker  party. 
With  generous  uprightness,  he  had  turned  aside  from 
the  tempting  offers  by  which  the  rich  man  had  sought  to 
gain  his  efforts  in  a  bad  cause.  His  reply  was,  "  I  am 
governed  in  my  actions  by  truth,  not  money,  sir." 

But  if  there  was  not  a  spirit  of  truthfulness  on  the 
side  opposed  to  Griswold,  there  was  talent  and  eloquence, 
and  over  the  multitude  they  had  their  sway.  The  deep 
hum  of  applause  that  arose  as  Arthur's  opponent  seated 
himself  with  a  somewhat  triumphant  air,  caused  a  sha 
dow  to  fall  upon  his  noble  heart.  He  slowly  arose,  with 
a  dignified  manner,  and  a  calm  strength  expressed  in  hia 
countenance.  At  first  his  words  were  somewhat  mea 
sured,  but  as  he  proceeded  he  gathered  might  and  force  ; 
his  large,  dark  eye  kindled  brilliantly,  and  his  usually 
pale  cheek  glowed,  as  he  poured  forth  with  burning  elo- 


THE  MERCHANT'S  SON.  26* 

qucnce  the  words  of  truth  and  justice.  There  was  a 
living  power  in  all  he  uttered,  that  caused  that  breath 
less  assembly  to  lean  forward,  and  listen  with  a  thrill. 
Truth  is  always  powerful ;  if  eloquently  supported,  it  ia 
irresistible  with  those  who  have  one  spark  of  honesty  in 
their  nature  to  be  appealed  to ;  and,  thank  heaven ! 
there  is  much  honesty  in  this  wicked  world  of  ours.  The 
fascinating  spell  of  the  former  speaker  was  broken  ;  the 
plain,  cutting  words  of  sober  truth  had  torn  away  the 
veil  arranged  with  such  skilful  art.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
that  Griswold  gained  the  case.  He  retired  almost 
exhausted,  and,  amid  many  enthusiastic  congratulations, 
he  hurried  on  to  leave  the  crowded  court-room. 

"Arthur!"  exclaimed  a  familiar  voice,  when  he  had 
nearly  reached  the  door.  He  turned,  and  a  white-haired 
old  man  grasped  his  hand  and  wrung  it,  while  big  tears 
of  joy  rolled  down  his  furrowed  cheeks.  "  My  noble 
boy  !  God  bless  you  !"  were  the  choking  words  that  burst 
from  his  father's  lips. 

"Father!"  and  the  heart  of  the  son  swelled  with 
more  blessed  feelings  at  those  few  words  than  he  had 
known  in  years.  Placing  his  father's  arm  upon  his  own, 
they  left  the  house ;  and  they  both  felt  that  their  cup 
of  joy  was  full.  Lucy  and  her  husband  met  them  upon 
the  pavement.  Arthur  sprang  forward,  and  clasping  the 
extended  hand  of  his  sister,  he  looked  upon  her  uplifted 
countenance  with  a  smile ;  and  yet  it  was  mingled  with 
a  strange  emotion.  She  glanced  a  moment  upon  her 
father's  happy  face,  then  raising  her  eyes  again  to 
Arthur's,  she  burst  into  tears  of  joy. 

"Dear  Arthur!"  was  all  she  could  say. 


266  LINES   IN    MEMORY    OF    MY    LOST   CHILD 

The  happy  party  bent  their  steps  towards  old  Mr. 
Griswold's  family  mansion,  and  there  Arthur  met  a  joy 
ful  mother's  smile. 

"Well,  my  boy!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Griswold,  giving 
his  son  a  hearty  slap  upon  his  shoulder,  "  I  have  learned 
one  lesson  to-day,  and  that  is,  that  you  were  never  cut 
s>ut  for  a  merchant." 


LINES  IN  MEMORY  OF  MY  LOST  CHILD 

• 

Mr  child  !  my  dear,  lost  child  !  a  father's  heart, 
Touched  by  the  holy  wand  of  memory, 
Would  in  this  hour  of  loneliness  and  gloom, 
When  not  a  sound  is  borne  upon  the  air, 
And  not  a  star  is  visible  in  heaven, 
Hold  sweet  communion  with  thy  soul. 

My  boy! 

Thou  wast  most  beautiful.     I  never  looked 
On  thee  but  with  a  heart  of  pride.     Thy  curls 
Fell  o'er  a  brow  of  angel-loveliness, 
And  thy  dark  eyes,  dark  as  the  midnight  cloud, 
And  soft  as  twilight  waters,  flashed  and  glowed 
In  strange,  wild  beauty,  yet  thy  tears  were  far 
More  frequent  than  thy  smiles — thy  wail  of  pain 
Came  oftener  on  our  hearts  than  thy  dear  cry 
Of  infant  joyousness.     Thy  few  brief  months 
Were  months  of  suffering ;  ay,  thy  cup  of  life 
Was  bitter,  bitter,  but  thou  wast  not  doomed 
To  drain  it,  for  a  God  of  mercy  soon 
Let  it  pass  from  thee. 

Oh  !  how  well,  my  child, 


LINES   IN    MEMORY   OP   MY    LOST   CHILD.  2tt7 

Do  I  remember  that  all-mournful  day, 

When  thy  young  mother  bore  thy  wasting  form. 

With  breaking  heart  and  streaming  eyes,  afar, 

In  the  vain  hope  to  save  the  dear  young  life 

To  which  the  tendrils  of  her  own  were  bound  I 

With  one  wild  pressure  of  thy  little  form 

To  my  sad  bosom  with  a  frantic  kiss 

Upon  thy  pallid  lips,  and  a  hot  tear 

Wrung  from  a  burning  brain,  I  said  farewell — 

Alas !  my  child,  I  never  saw  thee  more. 

In  a  strange  land,  far  from  thy  own  dear  home, 

But  with  the  holy  ministries  of  love 

Around  thy  couch,  thy  little  being  passed, 

Like  the  sweet  perfume  of  a  bright  young  rose, 

To  mingle  with  the  skies  from  whence  it  came. 

Oh  !  in  that  hour,  my  child,  thy  last  of  earth, 

Did  not  a  thought  of  thy  poor  father's  love 

Soften  the  anguish  of  thy  parting  soul, 

And  were  not  thy  dear  little  arms  outstretched 

To  meet  his  fond  caress? 

Thou  sleepest,  child, 

Where  the  Missouri  rolls  its  wild,  dark  waves, 
And  I  have  never  gazed  upon  thy  grave. 
No  tears  of  deep  affection  ever  blend 
With  ..tie  soft  dews  and  gentle  rains  that  fell 
Upon  tne  turf  that  lies  above  thy  breast ; 
But,  oh !  the  spot  is  hallowed.     There  the  Spring, 
The  bright  Spring,  yearly  throws  her  loveliest  wreatht 
Of  buds  and  blossoms — there,  at  morn  and  eve, 
The  viewless  spirit  of  the  zephyr  breathes 
Its  holiest  whispers  in  the  springing  grass, 
As  if  communing  with  thee — there  the  birds 
Glance  through  the  air  like  winged  souls,  and  pour 
Their  sweet,  unearthly  melodies — and  there 
At  the  soft  twilight  hour  young  angels  come 


268  LINES   IN    MEMORY   OP   MY   LOST   CHILD. 

To  hover  o'er  the  spot  on  silver  wings, 
And  mark  it  with  their  shining  foot-prints. 

Thcu 

Art  gone,  my  child — a  sweet  and  holy  bud 
Is  shaken  from  the  rose-tree  of  our  hopes ; 
But  yet  we  should  not  mourn.     'Tis  joy  to  know 
That  thou  hast  gone  in  thy  young  innocence 
And  purity  and  beauty  from  a  dark, 
Ungentle  world,  where  many  snares  beset 
The  path  of  manhood.     Ay,  'tis  joy  to  know 
That  the  .ZEulian  lyre  of  thy  young  soul 
Gives  out  its  music  in  the  Eden  clime, 
Unvisited  by  earth's  cold,  bitter  winds, 
Its  poison-dews,  its  fogs,  its  winter  rains, 
Its  tempests  and  its  lightnings. 

My  sweet  child, 

Thou  art  no  more  a  blossom  of  the  earth, 
But,  oh !  the  thought  of  thee  is  yet  a  spell 
On  our  sad  spirits.     'Tis  a  lovely  flower 
On  memory's  lonely  stream,  a  holy  star 
In  retrospection's  sky,  a  rainbow-gleam 
Upon  the  tempest-clouds  of  life.     Our  hearts, 
Our  stricken  hearts,  lean  to  thee,  love,  and  thus 
They  lean  to  Heaven,  for  thou  art  there.     Yes,  tbo* 
And  thy  young  sister  are  in  Heaven,  while  we 
Are  lingering  on  the  earth's  cold  desert.     Come, 
Yb  iwo  sweet  cherubs  of  God's  Paradise, 
Who  wander  side  by  side,  and  hand  in  hand, 
Among  the  amaranthine  flowers  that  bloom 
Beside  the  living  waters — come,  oh  come, 
Sometimes  upon  your  bright  and  snowy  wings, 
In  the  deep  watches  of  the  silent  night, 
And  breathe  into  our  souls  the  holy  words 
That  ye  have  heard  the  angels  speak  in  Heaven. 


CATHARINE    BLOOMER; 

OR,    NEW    AIMS    IN    LIFE. 

"But  tlsre  is  within  the  human  mind  an  active  and  powerful 
principle,  that  awakens  the  dormant  faculties,  lights  up  the  brain, 
and  launches  forth  to  gather  up  from  the  wide  realm  of  nature  the 
very  essence  of  what  every  human  bosom  pines  for,  when  it 
aspires  to  a  higher  state  of  existence,  and  feels  the  insufficiency 
of  this."— MRS.  ELLIS. 

"  LOUISA,  are  you  almost  ready?"  asked  a  young  lady, 
raising  her  eyes  from  the  book  she  was  reading,  and 
glancing  at  her  friend,  who  stood  before  the  mirror  of 
her  dressing-room,  preparing  to  go  out. 

"  I  shall  not  be  long,  Catharine,"  was  the  reply,  made 
in  a  sweet  voice.  "  I'm  afraid  that  book  don't  interest 
you  much,  for  you  look  at  me,  yawn,  then  read  a  few 
moments,  in  regular  rotation." 

"  Do  I  ?  Well,  I  don't  know  what  I  do,  and  what  is 
worse,  I  can't  find  out  what  I  want  to  do.  I  believe  I 
have  got  that  fashionable  complaint,  ennui ;  so  I  have 
called  this  afternoon  to  take  you  out  walking  in  Broad 
way  with  me.  That  is  the  proper  and  fashionable 
remedy,  is  it  not?" 

"  I  believe  it  is  in  vogue ;  as  for  its  propriety,  I  leave 
that  to  your  own  judgment." 

"  0,  I  don't  care  for  punctilious  proprieties  !  if  I  can 
be  amused  by  watching  a  thousand  different  counte 
nances,  and  thus  killing  time,  it  is  all  I  ask." 


270  CATHARINE    BLOOMER. 

"  It  may  be  all  you  ask,  but  is  it  all  you  ought  to 
ask?" 

"  No  moralizing,  if  you  please ,  I  came  that  you 
might  impart  to  me  a  little  of  your  gayety.  So  don't 
be  obstinate,  and  make  me  feel  more  doleful  than  I  do 
at  present." 

"  Have  you  any  real  cause  for  unhappiness,  Kate  ?" 
Louisa  inquired,  turning  round  and  scanning  closely  the 
countenance  of  her  friend 

"  No  cause,  except  what  every  one  has,  or  might  have. 
Everybody  thinks  I  am  very  happy ;  I  have  kind  parents, 
wealth,  and  liberty  to  spend  my  time  as  I  may  choose. 
I  have  you,  dear  Louisa  !  yet  my  soul  asks  for  something 
more.  Will  its  cravings  ever  be  satisfied?" 

Louisa  did  not  answer,  but  an  expression  of  sadness 
went  over  her  countenance.  It  was  the  first  time  Catha 
rine  Bloomer  had  ever,  in  the  slightest  degree,  given 
vent  to  her  real  feelings.  The  friends  had  generally 
been  gay  and  cheerful  in  each  other's  society.  Now  the 
face  of  Catharine  was  touched  with  melancholy;  her 
fine,  proud  features,  were  softened  and  subdued.  She 
was  silent  for  a  while,  then  arousing  herself,  she  rose 
and  approached  her  friend,  saying,  in  her  usual  careless 
tone,  "  Louisa,  I  really  believe  you  are  a  little  vain ; 
I  wonder  how  long  you  have  stood  before  that  glass, 
pulling  your  bonnet  this  way  and  that,  to  make  it  set 
straight  and  look  pretty." 

"  A  singular  kind  of  vanity,"  Louisa  retorted,  with 
a  smile,  "  for  I  was  scarcely  conscious  of  what  I  waa 
doing." 

"  You  want  me  to  believe  that  speech,  dc  you,  you 


CATHARINE   BLOOMER.  271 

vain  little  gipsy?"  said  Catherine,  touching  her  chin, 
with  an  air  of  playful  fondness. 

"  Yes,  I  want  you  to  believe  it,  and  I  further  desire 
you  to  retract  your  words,  or  we  will  surely  have  a 
duel." 

"Suppose  we  have  a  duel,  then,  hy  way  of  variety. 
Here  is  my  gage ;"  and,  stooping  down,  Catharine  picked 
up  a  tiny  satin  slipper  that  was  peeping  from  beneath 
the  bureau. 

"I  accept  your  pledge,  most  noble  knight,"  replied 
Louisa,  seizing  her  slipper.  After  flinging  it  in  a  corner, 
she  threw  her  arm  around  her  companion's  waist,  and 
said,  as  she  led  her  from  the  room,  "  Now  I  am  ready  to 
go  out  in  Broadway,  and  fight  as  becomes  a  valiant  lady 
chevalier.  But,  Catharine,  to  be  serious,  do  you  think 
I  am  vain  ?"  For  a  moment  the  young  girl  addressed 
was  silent,  her  lips  closed  firmly  in  thought.  Presently 
she  answered,  with  a  frank  decision, 

"Yes,  I  think  you  are."  After  a  moment's  paube, 
she  added,  "You  know  we  entered  into  a  compact  to  tell 
each  other  our  faults,  when  we  noticed  them." 

"  Yes,"  was  the  brief  and  somewhat  cold  reply.  They 
gained  the  street,  and  walked  about  half  a  block  without 
speaking.  Louisa  was  slightly  hurt,  and  the  deep  glow 
of  mortification  was  upon  her  cheek.  But  she  was  an 
nflectionate  girl,  and  loved  her  friend  *,oo  well  to  feel 
more  than  a  momentary  coldness  towards  her.  She  brckfl 
their  unwonted  silence  by  pressing  Catharine  s  hand, 
and  saying,  "  Thank  you  !  you  are  a  true  friend.  When 
ever  you  think  I  betray  any  vanity,  tell  me  of  it.  I  an 
sure  I  desire  to  get  rid  of  all  my  faults." 


272  CATHARINE    BLOOMER. 

"  I  know  it.  I  should  be  a  different  person,  perhaps, 
if  my  desires  were  as  active  as  yours  always  are.  I  seo 
my  own  faults,  and  the  faults  of  my  neighbours.  But, 
in  regard  to  myself,  I  am  indolent — careless.  Give  mo 
enjoyment,  and  I  suppose  I  am  too  indifferent  whether 
my  faults  or  virtues  are  called  into  action.  You  never 
tell  rne  of  my  faults,  Louisa,  except  the  single  one 
of  sarcasm ;  I  am  sure  I  have  a  thousand  more  than 
you." 

"  Well,  I  think  it  is  very  hard  to  listen  with  patience 
and  right  feeling  to  one  who  is  pointing  out  our  faults. 
Do  you  know,  Kate,  I  was  almost  indignant,  when  I 
found  you  were  in  earnest  about  my  vanity.  It  is  so 
very  agreeable  to  have  your  friends  think  you  are  just 
about  right." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  laughed  her  friend,  shaking  her 
head  a  little. 

"Don't  you?  Is  praise  and  admiration  disagreeable 
to  you  ?  I  thought  you  were  proud  of  your  gifts.  I 
have  seen  your  eye  flash  with  pleasure,  when  your  men 
tal  superiority  was  felt  and  acknowledged."  Catharine 
answered  by  an  impatient  "pshaw!"  and  thus  the  sub 
ject  was  dismissed.  By  this  time  they  had  reached  the 
house  of  an  acquaintance.  Louisa  paused,  and,  laying 
her  hand  upon  Catharine's  arm,  said,  "  Suppose  we  givo 
Mrs.  Belcher  a  call  ?  she  would  not  like  it,  if  she  knew 
we  passed  her  house  without  stopping  in." 

"Just  as  you  please,"  returned  Catharine;  "I  am 
perfectly  indifferent." 

"You  are  in  a  queer  mood  just  now,"  Louisa  replied, 


CATHARINE   BLOOMER.  273 

as  they  ascended  the  steps ;  "  not  very  complimentary 
to  Mrs.  Belcher,  I  must  say." 

"I  tell  the  truth,  if  I  am  not  very  complimentary, 
The  society  of  Mrs.  Belcher  never  adds  one  whit  to  wy 
enjoyment;  why  should  I  be  otherwise  than  indifferent  'i 
I  wish  society  was  so  organized  that  we  would  never  be 
obliged  to  say  all  sorts  of  pretty  things  about  the  wea 
ther,  fashions,  &c.,  to  people  for  whom  we  don't  care  a 
fig.  It  almost  makes  me  sick  to  rattle  on  an  hour  or 
two  about  things  in  which  I  have  no  interest  whatever. 
I  would  rather  be  alone,  fifty  times,  than  with  such  peo- 
pie.  I  wish  there  was  a  little  more  independence  in  the 
world." 

"Sois  tranquille,  ma  chere!"  said  Louisa,  touching 
the  shoulder  of  her  friend,  on  hearing  a  hand  on  the 
knob  of  the  door.  They  were  speedily  ushered  into  the 
elegantly  furnished  parlours  of  Mrs.  Belcher,  where  they 
were  left  alone  for  a  time. 

"  I  feel  very  fluent  this  morning,"  playfully  remarked 
Catharine,  throwing  herself  on  the  sofa ;  "  I  presume 
you  have  observed  it,  friend  Louisa.  I  could  mount  this 
sofa,  at  the  shortest  notice,  and  deliver  an  cxtcmpoie 
lecture  on  the  evils  of  visiting  uncongenial  acquaint- 

ances." 

«  Kate,  you  are  too  bad,"  returned  Louisa,  trying  to 
Buppress  a  smile.  "  I  have  a  good  long  lecture  to  give 
you,  and  you  shall  have  it,  depend  upon  it.  Now  pro 
mise  me  you  will  be  a  good  girl  during  this  call,  and  not 
act  as  if  you  were  perfectly  unconscious  of  all  that  ia 
Biiid.  Be  a  good  listener.  I  don't  ask  you  to  talk  much 
18 


274  CATHARINE   BLOOMER. 

You  appear  like  a  different  person,  when  you  care  t( 
please,  and  when  you  do  not." 

"  I  promise  anything  to  please  you.  But,  then,  after 
wards  I  shall  argue  with  you,  until  you  come  over  to  my 
si  le  of  the  question,  and — " 

''How?"  interrupted  Louisa. 

u  Why,  this  is  my  doctrine.  I  don't  approve  of  spend 
ing  hours  in  visiting  and  receiving  persons  who  are  the 
very  antipodes  of  ourselves,  in  tastes,  dispositions,  and 
everything  else  that  makes  social  intercourse  delightful. 
Why  can't  we  cut  short  such  acquaintance,  and  mingle 
only  with  those  more  congenial  ?  It  would  be  better  for 
us.  I  hate  this  vapid,  fashionable  society." 

"  You  know  we  should  not  regard  our  own  happiness 
entirely,  in  the  company  we  go  in." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  that.  But  we  confer  very  little 
happiness  where  we  are  not  happy  ourselves." 

"  It  is  selfishness  that  prevents  us  from  being  glad 
that  we  can  give  pleasure  to  any  one.  You  know,  if 
you  should  exert  yourself,  you  could  impart  a  great  deal 
of  pleasure  even  to  the  class  of  people  you  speak  of. 
Don't  yield  to  what  you  consider  silly  in  them,  only  so 
far  as  you  may,  by  this  means,  turn  them  your  own  wray, 
to  more  sensible  things." 

"  Can't  take  the  trouble,  Louise  ;  it  is  out  of  the  ques 
tion.  I  can't  stem  the  torrent,  when  it  is  so  little  worth 
stemming.  So  I  fall  in  with  it,  or  pass  by." 

The  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  the  entrance 
of  Mrs.  Belcher.  "  Ah !  ladies,  good  morning !  how 
arc  you?"  she  exclaimed,  tripping  lightly  into  the  room. 
"  Very  happy  to  s«  e  you-  Charming  day,  is  it  not  ?  J 


CATHARINE   BLOOMER.  275 

inteiid  to  go  out  shopping  before  this  fine  weather  is 
over.  Can't  you  take  off  your  hats,  young  ladies,  and 
stay  to  dinner?" 

The  visitors  politely  excused  themselves.  "  0, 
Stewart  has  got  some  of  the  sweetest  muslins  !"  the 
lady  went  on  to  say.  "  They  are  splendid  for  dresses. 
Have  you  seen  them  ?" 

"No,  we  have  not,"  answered  both  the  girls. 

"  Well,  I  can't  find  out  whether  straw  hats  or  silk  are 
going  to  be  worn  most.  Do  you  know,  Miss  Bloomer?" 

"I  really  do  not,"  the  young  lady  replied,  looking 
intently  in  Mrs.  Belcher's  face,  and  speaking  in  a  slow, 
puzzled  tone,  as  if  her  ignorance  was  cause  for  serious 
and  thoughtful  anxiety.  Louisa  bit  her  lip,  to  keep 
from  smiling.  Mrs.  Belcher  thrn  turned  to  Miss  Holl- 
man,  and  said,  "  My  milliner  says  straw  will  be  worn 
most,  but  I  don't  like  to  run  the  risk  of  making  a  pur 
chase  on  her  assurance  alone.  What  do  you  think  ?" 

"  I  can't  tell,  I  arn  sure.  I  have  not  thought  much 
about  it."  There  was  a  short  pause,  which  Catharine 
broke  by  saying,  "  Shall  you  leave  the  city  early  this 
summer,  Mrs.  Belcher?" 

"  I  shall  leave  in  July  for  the  Springs.  I  should 
surely  die  if  I  were  not  there.  I  wonder  who  will  lead 
the  ton  this  year  ?  I  should  like  to  know." 

"  Perhaps  you  will,  Mrs.  Belcher,"  suggested  Catha 
rine,  gravely. 

"  0,  no  !"  replied  the  lady,  with  a  pleased  smile.  "  I 
suppose  I  must  be  satisfied  with  having  been  the  belle 
before  I  was  married." 

"Ah!  were  you  ever  the  belle?"  questioned  Catha- 


276  CATHARINE   BLOOMER. 

rine  in  real  astonishment,  for  she  had  not  imagined  th<j 
uninteresting  face  of  the  lady  before  her  had  ever  be 
longed  to  a  bright  particular  star. 

"  When  such  things  are  past,  young  ladies,  we  feel 
free  to  talk  about  them.  Yes,  I  was  the  belle  at  Sara 
toga  for  several  summers."  No  reply  was  made  to  this. 
Each  of  the  visiters  had  intuitively  decided  in  her  own 
rnind  that  Mrs.  Belcher  had  only  been  the  belle  of  her 
own  fair  dreams.  After  a  little  more  conversation,  the 
young  ladies  arose  to  go.  "Well,"  said  Mrs.  Belcher, 
as  they  stood  in  the  hall,  "  don't  you  incline  to  think 
that  straw  hats  will  be  worn  most?" 

"  It  is  highly  probable  they  may,"  returned  Louisa. 

"  Shouldn't  you  think  they  would,  Miss  Bloomer?" 

"  I  think  they  will  bo  worn  a  great  deal." 

"  Then  you  would  advise  me  to  get  straw,  instead  of 
silk?" 

"  That  is  my  advice,"  was  the  reply  of  Catharine, 
who  thus  hoped  to  bring  the  tantalizing  discussion  to  an 
end. 

"  And  what  do  you  say  ?"  the  fashionable  lady  then 
appealed  to  Louisa. 

"  I  say,  be  guided  entirely  by  your  own  taste,  Mrs. 
Belcher.  I  would  rather  not  advise,  in  such  matters." 

"  0,  I  never  blame  anybody  that  advises  me,  let  the 
consequences  be  what  they  may !  So  tell  me  your  can 
did  opinion." 

"  I  must  be  excused.  You  will  excuse  me,  won't  you? 
We  must  go  now;  good-morning!" 

The  damsels  hurried  off,  as  if  they  expected  everj 


CATHARINE    BLOOMER.  277 

moment  to  be  called  back,  in  order  to  sit  in  judgment 
upon  new  bonnets. 

"I'm  positively  nervous !"  said  Catharine,  hurrying 
along  the  street  with  quick,  impatient  steps.  "  Do  tell 
me,  Louisa,  what  earthly  good  that  call  has  done?  I  am 
sure  you  must  agree  with  me  now,  that  there  is  no  use 
in  visiting  such  harassing  people.  I  feel  really  fidgety 
after  it.  This  is  the  last  time  I  go  there." 

"  I  don't  think  Mrs.  Belcher  would  benefit  any  one 
very  much,  I  must  confess,"  replied  Louisa.  "  And  I 
will  further  say,  I  don't  think  you  would  either,  just 
now." 

"Indeed,  Miss  Ilollman  !  Very  grateful." 
"  But  Mrs.  Belcher  is  an  exception  to  the  generality 
of  people,"  Louisa  said,  after  a  brief  smile  at  her  friend's 
remark.  "  She  rattles  on  at  such  a  desperate  rate,  you 
can't  say  much ;  and  whatever  subject  you  may  intro 
duce,  she  dismisses  it  with  the  utmost  nonchalance,  if  it 
does  not  suit  her  taste,  and  spins  her  own  top  again. 
She  seems  to  possess  a  mind  in  which  nothing  will  sink  ; 
you  can  only  strike  the  surface,  which  sends  everything 
back  with  a  rebound.  Yet  we  know  there  are  germs  of 
goodness  in  her,  as  well  as  in  other  people." 

"  Of  course,  I  suppose  so,"  was  Catharine's  half-indif 
ferent  reply. 

"  Still,"  pursued  Louisa,  "  it  must  be  our  duty  to  keep 
within  the  sphere  of  the  best  people,  unless  we  are  sur« 
we  may  not  be  influenced  by  others  more  than  we  can 
influence.  I  am  perfectly  willing,  and  even  desirous,  to 
lessen  an  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Belcher,  as  far  as  we  maj 
without  exciting  unpleasant  feelings  in  her." 


278 


CATHARINE    BLOOMER. 


"Nonsense!"  returned  Catharine;  "it  won't  hurt 
her,  if  her  indignation  is  a  little  roused.  Her  sphere,  aa 
you  call  it,  and  mine  don't  agree,  I  can  assure  you. 
There  are  some  persons  I  always  leave  in  a  somewhat 
fretted  state  of  mind,  even  if  nothing  has  occurred  but 
What  appeared  perfectly  pleasant.  I  am  a  great  believer 
in  spiritual  affinities, — the  tones  of  my  heart  don't  har 
monize  with  every  one.  I  have  often  only  had  one  good 
look  at  a  person,  and  my  feelings  have  gone  forth  in 
glad  friendship,  which  has  grown  a  thousand  times 
warmer  on  acquaintance.  Again,  I  have  met  a  person 
daily  for  months,  and  have  felt  little  more  interest  than 
if  an  article  of  furniture  had  fallen  in  my  way.  I  act 
upon  such  impulses." 

"  That  is  not  to  say  you  act  rightly.  But  wait  until 
We  get  home,  free  from  the  noise  of  these  rattling  car 
riages  ;  then  we  will  have  a  talk!"  They  quickened 
their  pace. 

"  Catharine,"  said  Louisa,  seriously,  when  they  were 
again  seated  in  her  dressing-room,  "  you  told  me  of  a 
fault  this  morning;  now  let  me  tell  you  of  one;  and 
listen  to  me  without  any  bursts  of  impatience.  You  are 
very  gifted,  and  you  know  it.  You  are  brilliant ;  you 
joyfully  pour  out  the  riches  of  your  mind,  where  you 
know  you  will  be  appreciated  and  admired.  But  thoso 
who  cannot  sympathize  with  you  mentally,  you  treat 
with  an  indifference  which,  in  my  opinion,  springs  from 
selfishness." 

Catharine's  proud  lip  curved  at  this  charge.  The 
impetuous  blood  rushed  over  her  face,  and  retreated 


CATHARINE   BLOOiMER.  279 

again,  before  she  made  her  calm  reply:  uWhy  do  you 
think  it  springs  from  selfishness?' 

•{  Because  you  only  try  to  please  where  you  will  win 
the  need  of  admiration  from  a  superior  mind.  You 
never  try  to  make  a  feeble  heart  lighter  and  stronger  by 
your  gifts." 

"  It  is  only  a  noble  intellect  that  can  arouse  my  slum 
bering  powers — a  weak  one  cannot  bid  its  treasures  flow 
forth.  Perhaps  you  are  right ;  perhaps  I  am  selfish.  I 
know  I  am.  I  am  a  strange  being,  I  suppose;"  and 
Catharine's  voice  grew  sad.  u  I  sometimes  feel  as  if 
my  powers  are  bound  in — as  if  I  am  nothing.  It  is  only 
when  I  touch  a  chord  in  some  gifted  heart  that  vibrates 
with  a  strangely-joyful  thrill  and  tells  me  what  I  am 
— full  of  stifled,  unsatisfied  aspirations — of  glorious 
thoughts,  which  seldom,  too  seldom,  meet  an  echo — then 
I  learn  what  I  might  have  been  if  placed  in  a  congenial 
atmosphere,  if  suffered  to  commune  with  kindred  and 
higher  spirits.  The  society  I  go  in  chokes  up  both 
heart  and  mind ;  what  wonder  is  it  that  I  am  as  I  am  ? 
Day  after  day  this  ceaseless  monotony ;  when  I  taste  the 
cup  of  mental  joy,  it  is  only  to  regret  afterwards  that  it 
was  dashed  away.  My  God  !  must  it  always  be  thus  ?" 
The  young  enthusiast  paused ;  the  glow  of  her  cheek 
had  deepened,  and,  as  she  raised  her  eyes  upward  filled 
with  the  light  of  strong  feeling,  a  hot  tear  fell :  both 
were  silent  for  a  time,  with  upspringing  thoughts  busy 
at  their  hearts.  Catharine  went  on  more  calmly :  "  I 
have  sometimes  wished  that  I  was  a  gentle  being,  formed 
to  soften  and  bless,  tc  be  beloved  by  every  one.  I  yearn 
for  sympathy — to  be  appreciated — I  ask  for  one  deejj 


280  CATHARINE   BLOOMER. 

draught  of  the  joy  of  heaven.  And  then  again  a  flood 
of  bitterness,  such  passionate  bitterness,  falls  upon  my 
soul.  Intellect  and  feeling  !  Yes,  they  are  called  gifts, 
blessed  gifts — what  have  they  made  life  to  me  ?  What 
is  life  but  a  tissue  of  pain  and  care  and  crushed  feelings 
— a  bright  spot  so  rarely  seen  ?  Am  I  as  happy — " 

The  young  girl  stopped  without  finishing  the  sentence 
and,  leaning  forward,  burst  into  a  flood  of  passionate  tears 
The  deep  flush  that  had  crossed  her  listener's  cheek 
while  she  was  speaking,  the  tears  that  sprung  to  her  eye, 
and  the  quiver  of  the  lip  she  tried  to  render  firm,  showed 
that  the  words  of  Catharine  had  stirred  up  in  her  breast 
feelings  which  once  might  have  responded  more  quickly. 
Seating  herself  on  a  low  stool  at  her  friend's  feet,  she 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands  a  moment ;  then  raising  it, 
she  pleaded  in  her  low,  earnest  voice : — 

"  Catharine,  0,  Catharine,  for  your  own  sake,  don't 
feel  so.  You  do  not  look  upon  life  as  you  should.  You 
see  all  through  your  own  perverted  vision;  you  are 
morbid  in  your  feeling.  You  garner  up  a  world  of  in 
tense  bitterness,  and  spend  it  upon  your  own  aching 
heart.  I  have  felt  so,  and  sometimes,  even  now,  that 
some  fountain  of  bitter  waters  is  unsealed,  and  I  see  only 
darkness  around  me,  mirrored  from  the  darkness  within. 
But  we  must  let  our  sympathies  go  out  to  others,  and 
for  others ;  we  must  not  bring  all  to  ourselves.  We 
must  look  upward  for  the  light — upward  for  ever ;  and 
the  radiance  of  Heaven  will  not  fail  to  be  poured  upon 
our  spirits.  With  hearts  made  strong  by  pure  thoughts 
and  sweet  affections,  we  will  go  forward  cheerfully  and 
steadfastly.  We  must  not  ask,  how  much  of  joy  will  b<i 


CATHARINE   BLOOMER.  281 

poured  into  my  bosom  ?  But  rather,  how  much  of  God's 
love  may  my  heart  shed  abroad  among  my  fellow-crea 
tures  ?  whose  sorrows  may  I  soothe — whose  joys  in 
crease?  We  should  bless  God  for  his  gifts,  and  use 
them  not  selfishly  but  gratefully— for  all."  When 
Louisa  ceased  speaking,  Catharine  clasped  her  hand 
tightly  in  her  own,  and  kissing  her  cheek,  said,  in  a 
choked  voice,  "  Bless  you,  iny  friend !  I  will  try  to  look 
upward." 

How  sweetly  those  words  fell  upon  the  ear  of  Louisa ! 
with  what  a  thrill  of  mingled  joy  and  sadness  she  heard 
Catharine's  softened  sobs,  and  felt  the  frequent  pressure 
of  her  hand  in  token  of  gratitude  for  her  gentle  conso 
lation  !  A  vein  of  holier  thought  and  feeling  was  touched 
in  Catharine's  heart ;  her  bitter  emotions  she  wept  away  ; 
and  from  the  altar  of  her  inmost  soul  there  went  up  a 
prayer  that  she  might  no  longer  waste  and  turn  into  a 
curse  what  the  Father  of  Light  had  given  her  so  bounti 
fully  in  his  infinite  love.  "  What  have  I  ever  done  to 
make  one  human  being  better  or  happier  ?"  she  asked 
sadly. 

"You  have  made  me  happier,  dearest,"  replied  her 
companion,  a  tear  trembling  in  her  eye  and  a  smile 
breaking  gently  over  her  features.  "  Your  better  nature 
is  active  now.  You  will  yet  be  all  you  are  capable  of 
being ;  your  influence  will  be  exerted  in  the  best  and 
noblest  of  all  charities — the  awakening  of  pure  thoughts  in 
slumbering  hearts — the  strengthening  of  faint  resolves." 

"  Ah  !  Louisa,"  said  Catharine  ;  and  her  subdued  face 
suddenly  lit  up  with  an  expression  of  flashing  hope  and 
joy.  A  smile,  with  a  volume  of  bright,  unspoken  mean- 


282  CATHARINE   BLOOMER. 

ing  in  it,  parted  her  lips.  "  If  I  could  but  stir  up  in 
other  hearts  the  feelings  you  have  stirred  in  mine — if  in 
other  hearts  I  could  but  aid  to  stop  the  current  of  un 
grateful  bitterness,  and  wake  the  sweet  emotions  that 
flow  from  higher  and  purer  fountains — if  the  influence 
of  my  soul  could  go  forth  as  yours  does,  only  to 
strengthen  the  tie  that  may  bind  us  to  heaven !  but  I 
am  too  hopeful ;  my  own  heart  is  yet  an  untamed  wil 
derness  ;  0 !  will  it  ever  be  otherwise  ?  I  tremble  for 
my  weakness.'* 

"  God  is  our  refuge  and  strength,  '  replied  the  gentle 
Louisa.  By  this  time  the  shadows  of  twilight  had  fallen, 
a  haziness  had  breathed  over  the  few  golden  clouds  that 
lingered  in  the  west,  and  the  blue  sky  had  taken  a  more 
dreamy  tint.  The  young  girls  parted  affectionately, 
with  an  assurance  of  soon  meeting  again. 

"  Ah  !  my  dearest,  how  do  you  do  ?"  cried  Miss  Holl- 
man,  flinging  open  the  door  of  her  friend's  apartment, 
and  giving  her  a  hearty  greeting,  a  few  weeks  after  the 
foregoing  conversation.  "  Well,  it  looks  oddly  enough  to 
Bee  you  busy  over  anything  but  a  book  or  something  of 
the.  kind.  What  little  girl  is  this?"  she  lowered  her 
Toice,  and  looked  at  a  pretty  child  who  was  deeply  en 
gaged  in  sewing  on  a  dress  for  her  own  little  person. 

"My  prote'gde,"  replied  Catharine,  smiling;  "she  is 
the  daughter  of  our  washerwoman,  and  I  am  sewing  for 
her.  Look  at  my  forefinger  !  The  way  it  is  scratched 
pronounces  me  a  creditable  seamstress,  I'm  sure." 

"  Very  !"  said  Louisa,  laughing  ;  "  but  tell  me  of  this 
Budden  freak.  You  used  to  say  you  never  would  trouble 
yourself  with  sewing,  unless  you  were  obliged  to  do  it." 


CATHARINE   BLOOMER.  283 

"I  know  it,"  returned  the  new  seamstress,  shaking 
her  head.  "  But  I  have  made  better  resolves,  and  I 
intend  to  follow  them  out.  I  shall  conquer  my  indolent 
habits.  You  set  me  to  thinking  the  other  day,  Louisa, 
and  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  live  a  life  of  usefulness. 
I  may  not  pass  out  of  the  world  without  having  per 
formed  my  part.  By  employing  my  hands,  and  calling 
into  exercise  my  best  feelings,  I  hope  to  grow  better  and 
happier.  You  know,  with  me  a  thing  is  no  sooner 
decided  upon  than  it  is  done,  if  possible.  What  do  you 
think  I  am  going  to  do  now  ?" 

"Educate  that  child  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  don't  you  approve  the  plan  ?  she  is  a  bright, 
affectionate  little  thing,  and  her  mother  is  poor,  to  des 
titution."  Louisa  threw  her  arm  around  Catharine's 
neck,  and  gave  her  a  heart-warm  kiss.  "  Don't  give  up, 
my  dear  girl !"  she  ?aid  earnestly. 

"  0,  no  !  I  am  happier  now  than  I  have  been  in  a 
long  time.  Everything  is  sunny  to  me  now.  Rainbow 
tints  touch  all.  A  thousand  blessings  are  showered  upon 
me ;  how  could  I  speak  so  bitterly,  when  I  have  kind, 
affectionate  friends  ?  How  much  more  I  shall  try  to  do 
for  their  happiness  than  I  have  done  !  If  we  would  only 
do  all  the  good  accident  throws  in  our  way,  how  many 
beautiful  spots  we  could  look  back  to  in  after  years ! 
But  I  am  an  enthusiast,  Louisa ;  all  comes  to  me  so 
glowingly.  My  aims  in  life  are  fixed  now,  I  hope.  I 
have  triumphed,  but  I  have  had  many  prayers  and  tears 
and  struggles  since  I  last  saw  you.  It  has  been  a  hard 
thing  for  me  to  resolve  to  yield  up  my  day  dreams,  my 
idle  feelings,  my  talents,  my  all,  to  better  purposes  than 


284  CATHARINE   BLOOMER. 

my  own  amusement.  But  now — now  it  seems  a  sweeter 
thing  to  pour  out  my  sympathies,  to  make  others  joyful ; 
it  is  a  blessed  power.  We  do  not  realize  what  we  are, 
the  pure  happiness  we  are  capable  of,  until  we  feel  thus 
It  seems  so  delightful  to  me  to  be  full  of  plans,  eager 
and  interested,  like  other  people.  I  am  as  full  of  ro 
mance  as  ever,  but  I  shall  look  on  life,  and  weave  around 
real  incidents  the  charmed  spell.  I  shall  no  longer  fly 
from  the  common-place,  but  I  will  breathe  over  it  the 
poetry  of  kindly  affections.  I  shall  not  selfishly  avoid 
the  society  of  all  but  a  chosen  few.  I  shall  observe  and 
study ;  I  shall  do  anything, — everything  to  wake  up  my 
mind  from  its  lethargic  dreams.  I  will  keep  a  journal 
to  watch  over  my  wayward  heart,  and  note  down  my 
resolutions  and  short-comings.  It  shall  benefit  me  by 
being  my  confessional,  and  it  shall  amuse  me  with  its 
own  unequalled  pure  romance.  Now  haven't  I  as  great 
a  tact  for  creating  sources  of  happiness  as  I  had,  a  few 
weeks  ago,  the  talent  for  discovering  miseries  ?  0  !  I 
shall  yet  be  a  happy  creature,  and  a  good  one,  too,  I 
hope." 

Louisa  listened  to  this  gush  of  happy  feeling,  with  a 
smile  beaming  from  her  blue  eyes,  and  softening  every 
feature.  Never  had  the  dear  voice  of  Catharine  sounded 
so  sweetly  musical.  Her  own  experience,  though  brief, 
told  her  that  clouds  followed  the  joyful  sunshine ;  but  it 
also  told  her  that  those  clouds  would  break  again,  and 
from  the  bosom  of  the  heavens  a  flood  of  yet  purer  light 
would  descend ;  she  sought  not  to  damp  the  ardour  of 
her  friend  by  reminding  her  of  the  changeful  states  of 
mind  to  which  we  are  subject,  the  hours  of  stern  conflict 


CATHARINE   BLOOMER.  285 

with  feeling  and  motives  which  we  thought  we  had 
abandoned  entirely.  She  had  seldom  seen  Catharine'* 
strength  of  character  thoroughly  roused,  but  it  had 
sometimes  flashed  forth  with  a  light  that  assured  her  it 
could  burn  brightly  and  steadily,  if  principle,  undying 
principle,  were  but  there  to  feed  the  flame.  Casting 
aside  these  reflections  for  the  present,  she  yielded  with 
her  friend  to  that  delicious  freshness  and  childhood  of 
the  heart  which  all  must  have  felt  for  a  time  at  least. 
She  rummaged  among  the  books  on  education  lying  on 
Catharine's  table,  sometimes  laughing  and  jesting  about 
her  new  dignities,  and  again  entering  into  a  serious  dis 
cussion.  At  last,  to  little  Susy's  great  delight,  she  took 
her  dress  from  her,  and,  occupying  her  vacated  seat, 
began  to  sew  with  a  charming  energy.  When  the  protdgdo 
had  Catharine's  permission  to  disappear,  Louisa  said, 
gayly,  "  Why,  Kate,  we  are  as  happy  as  queens  here, 
in  our  capacity  of  seamstresses.  So  you  are  really 
going  to  give  that  little  bright-eyed  damsel  a  first-rate 
education  ;  going  to  take  the  whole  charge  of  her  !  Is 
she  very  smart?" 

"  Yes,  and  generous  and  sweet-tempered.  I  shall  not 
waste  any  accomplishments  on  her ;  but  I  shall  cultivate 
and  strengthen  her  mind,  and  see  that  the  best  affections 
of  her  nature  are  called  forth,  as  a  matter  of  the  first 
importance." 

"  0  !  you  will  make  a  bewitching  teacher ;  you  talk 
like  a  book.  Who  would  have  thought  a  wild,  careless 
girl  like  you  could  speak  so  judiciously  on  such  a 
subject?" 

"  Ah!  indeed,"  said  Catharine,  with  her  hearty,  mis* 


286  CATHARINE   BLOOMER. 

chievous  laugh,  "these  wild  girls  don't  get  the  credit  of 
even  being  in  their  sober  senses.  I  suppose  my  acquaint 
ances  will  think  I  am  daft,  as  the  Scotch  say.  Well, 
be  it  so !  I  can  be  laughed  at,  if  it  is  distressing,  but 
I  can't  be  moved." 

"  We  would  be  in  a  pretty  bad  plight,  if  we  depended 
on  the  opinions  of  our  friends  entirely,  instead  of  our 
own  convictions  of  duty,"  remarked  Louisa. 

As  weeks  rolled  on,  Catharine  was  fretted,  worried, 
and  tormented  with  little  Susy,  as  only  untrained  child 
ren  know  how  to  fret,  torment,  and  worry.  Hasty  words 
sometimes  sprung  to  her  lip,  but  the  strong,  upright 
will  came  off  conqueror  in  the  end.  She  went  into 
society  with  a  different  spirit. 

"  Such  a  delightful  time  we  will  have  to-night !"  were 
the  eager  words  that  escaped  her  lips,  as  she  and  Louisa 
were  tripping  along  Broadway  one  afternoon  ;  "we  must 
not  stay  long  at  Mrs.  Belcher's ;  I  hope  she  is  not  very 
sick." 

"0!  I  hope  not,"  answered  Louisa;  then  taking  up 
the  subject  that  most  occupied  her  thoughts,  she  ex 
claimed,  in  a  lively  tone,  "  I  shall  have  just  the  kind  of 
company  you  like,  the  talent  and  genius,  and  you  shall 
be  the  star.  I  won't  have  to  coax  you  to  be  bright  to 
night,  will  I?" 

"  Taisez- vous  /"  said  Catharine,  with  a  laugh  and  a 
blush ;  "  I  don't  like  flattery.  But  here  we  are  ;  now 
we  must  not  stay  long." 

"  No,  indeed  !  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  at  most.  I  have 
oceans  of  business  at  home;  but,  as  Mrs.  Ikleher  ex« 


CATHARINE   BLOOMER.  287 

pressed  a  wish  that  we  should  call  on  her,  I  think  we 
ought." 

"  Certainly,  I  think  so  too."  In  a  few  moments,  the 
young  girls  stood  by  the  sick-bed  of  the  fashionable  lady. 
Her  face  was  pale  and  thin,  and  wore  the  sad,  thoughtful 
look  sickness  and  sorrow  can  give  to  the  merriest  or  most 
inexpressive  countenance. 

"  Ah  !  I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  she  said,  extending 
her  little  white  hands  to  the  girls  as  they  approached 
her ;  she  smiled  kindly  as  each,  in  turn,  bent  over  her 
and  kissed  her.  u  Bring  your  chairs  here  close  by  me. 
I  am  so  lonely.  All  my  friends  just  send  to  the  door  to 
inquire  after  me.  I  knew  you  would  not  be  careful  to 
avoid  a  sick-bed,  so  I  sent  for  you.  The  greater  part 
of  the  time  I  only  see  my  nurse." 

"We  had  not  heard  of  your  sickness  before,"  said 
Louisa. 

"I  thought  not." 

"  Is  your  husband  out  of  the  city  ?"  Catharine  inquired 
thoughtlessly ;  she  had  heard  some  vague  rumours  about 
Mr.  Belcher,  but  had  forgotten  them. 

"  No,  0,  no  !"  was  the  brief  reply ;  but  in  that  tone, 
and  in  the  expression  that  crossed  Mrs.  Belcher's  face, 
the  young  girls  read  volumes.  Her  husband  was  a  gam 
bler,  and  his  wife  had  learnt  it  but  three  weeks  before, 
when  he  started  suddenly  for  the  South.  Her  kind- 
hearted  visitors  stayed  longer  than  they  had  intended ; 
they  fe't  that  they  had  lightened  fch*  tedious  hours  of 
the  invalid. 

"We  will  come  and  see  you  often,"  said  Catharine, 
tenderly. 


2£8  CATHARINE   BLOOMER. 

<:  As  often  as  you  want  us,"  Louisa  added,  with  a  sweet, 
dad  smile. 

"  I  can't  bear  to  have  you  leave  me,  dear  girls,"  Mrs. 
Belcher  said,  in  a  half-pleading  voice.  "  I  don't  expect 
to  sleep  all  this  weary  night.  If  one  of  you  could  only 
Btay  with  me  ?  But  I  should  not  ask  it." 

u  I  wish  we  could,"  answered  Louisa.  Catharine  was 
silent ;  her  heart  throbbed  with  sudden  disappointment. 
She  thought  of  the  pleasure  she  had  been  anticipating. 
It  came  before  her  with  glowing  vividness,  arrayed  in 
the  sunny  warmth  with  which  fancy  prepares  us  for 
expected  enjoyment.  And  then  she  thought  of  the 
kindness  by  which  she  might  soothe  the  neglected  wife. 
There  was  a  powerful  struggle  in  her  breast ;  the.  good 
triumphed.  Speaking  to  Mrs.  Belcher  in  rather  a  low 
tone,  she  said,  "Louisa  expects  a  number  of  friends  at 
her  house  to-night.  She  of  course  cannot  be  excused, 
but  I  will  stay  with  you,  and  read  to  you,  or  amuse  you 
the  best  I  can." 

"  Thank  you!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Belcher,  gratefully; 
"but  perhaps  you  intended  to  spend  the  evening  at 
Louisa's  ?" 

"I  am  going  to  spend  it  here  now,  at  all  events," 
Catharine,  replied,  with  her  own  peculiarly  decided  wilful 
smile. 

"  I  wish  it  was  convenient  for  me  to  stay,  too,"  said 
Louisa,  as  she  pressed  Mrs.  Belcher's  hand  at  parting. 
Then  turning  to  her  friend,  who  had  approached  tli€ 
window,  she  said,  in  an  undertone,  "  Ah !  Catharine, 
my  pleasure  is  gone,  too.  I  shall  think  of  you  all  the 
time  ;  so  lonely,  and  I  will  be  where  all  is  gaycty."  The 


CATHARINE   BLOOMER.  289 

pitying  drops  actually  started  in  Louisa's  eyes.  "  March 
home  as  fast  ag  you  can  go,"  said  Catharine,  in  the 
same  low  voice,  leading  her  companion  to  the  door,  and 
dashing  away  a  tear  that  came  in  spite  of  a  smile. 
"  You  unman  me,  you  charming  little  baby.  Just  look 
here  !"  and  she  pointed  to  a  crystal  drop  that  was  rolling 
with  "solemn  gait  and  slow"  down  her  cheek.  Louisa 
disappeared,  with  a  mischievous  light  chasing  away  her 
pathetic  tears.  Catharine  moved  around  the  invalid's 
bed ;  and  deep,  gentle  affections  came  clustering  about 
her  heart.  She  felt  happy  in  the  consciousness  of  hav 
ing  done  right;  her  half-pensive  smile,  and  tender  voice, 
was  a  balm  to  the  wounded  spirit  of  the  sufferer.  She 
led  the  conversation  along  gently  to  subjects  most 
adapted  to  give  consolation  to  the  sick  and  sorrowful. 
Gradually  and  slowly  she  opened  in  Mrs  Belcher's  heart 
(he  good  and  tender  feelings,  so  long  hidden  under  the 
smile  of  prosperity,  on  the  callousness  of  worldly  carea 
and  pleasures.  With  the  colouring  of  her  own  sun-bright 
fancy,  she  spoke  of  life  and  its  objects.  She  cheered 
her  desolate  bosom  with  hopes  and  thoughts  of  all  that 
future  expansive  life  we  may  all  win  by  our  labours  here. 
And  the  weary  sick  one  listened  earnestly,  as  Catharine 
touched  a  chord  in  her  breast  no  kind  being  had  ever 
sought  to  touch  before ;  she  felt  that  she  had  friends 
here,  and  friends  in  the  watchful  angels,  and  a  friend  in 
our  Father  in  Heaven.  More  hallowed  sympathies  were 
gently  aroused — a  more  soothing  sadness  breathed  over 
her  spirit.  Tears  coursed  slowly  and  silently  down  her 
pale  face.  With  a  gush  of  feeling,  Catharine  leaned 
forward,  and  folded  her  arms  around  her  slender  form, 
19 


290  "  KEEP   THYSELF   PURE." 

as  if  that  might  protect  her  from  sorrow.  She  pressed 
her  lips  upon  her  forehead,  and  her  own  warm,  kind 
tears  fell,  and  mingled  with  those  of  the  invalid.  The 
hope  she  had  expressed  to  Louisa  had  come  to  pass.  In 
that  lonely  bosom,  she  had  awakened  to  a  sad  yet  sweet 
music  the  string  that  could  vibrate  to  hopes  higher  than 
those  of  earth.  When  morning  bathed  all  in  its  welcome 
li^ht,  did  that  young  girl  regret  her  act  of  self-denial  ? 
Let  those  who  have  had  a  similar  experience  answer. 
To  change  the  whole  current  of  our  thoughts  and  feel 
ings  is  not  the  work  of  a  moment,  yet  there  must  be  a 
time  when  that  work  must  commence.  With  Mrs. 
Belcher  it  had  just  begun ;  and  through  the  influence  of 
Catharine  and  Louisa  she  became,  in  time,  not  brilliant 
nor  gifted,  but  what  all  may  become,  gentle,  upright* 
and  good. 


"KEEP  THYSELF  PURE." 

BE  thou  pure  before  the  morning, 

Pure  before  the  eye  of  day  ; 
Pure  when  glowing  glances  meet  thee, 

And  when  eyes  are  turned  away : 
Through  the  glory,  through  the  shadow, 

Let  them  be  alike  to  thee ; 
Ever  pressing  onward,  upward, 

In  the  strength  of  purity ; 
Wot  alone  in  light  endure, 
Through  the  darkness  keep  thee 


"  KEEP   THYSELF   PURE. 

Gentle-hearted  friends  anear  U8, 

Make  the  path  of  duty  sweet ; 
Ah  !  how  softly  walk  we  onward, 

When  the  loving  guide  our  feot. 
That  must  be  a  little  sorrow, 

Which  is  shared  as  soon  as  known, 
For  it  draws  the  heart  we  lean  ou 

Closer — closer  to  our  own : 
Can  it  be  a  bitter  thing, 
When  such  balm  is  in  its  sting? 

But  a  sorrow  may  come  nigh  thee 

In  a  time  of  loneliness; 
When  thy  soul  is  drooping — fainting— 

And  no  love  is  there  to  bless ; 
Friendless — desolate — deserted — 

Can  ye  bear  the  aching  thrill? 
Will  thy  heart  keep  on  its  pureness, 

Meek,  and  true,  and  trusting  still? 
Ah  !  'tis  then  we  learn  the  need, 
Of  a  changeless  love  indeed. 

Not  for  earth — or  earth's  applauses, 

Not  for  glory,  or  for  gain, 
But  for  Heaven's  high  approval, 

Cleanse  thy  bosom  from  its  stain : 
When  no  eye  or  ear  can  heed  thee, 

Deep  within  thy  heart  of  hearts; 
For  thy  God  in  love  is  seeking 

44  Truth  in  all  the  inward  parts  f 
And  thy  hope  is  very  sure, 
11'  thy  soul  be  true  and  pure. 


£91 


"  THE  ANGELS  WITH  US  UNAWARES." 

"DEAR  mamma,  I  love  you,"  says  the  baby-boy, 
clasping  his  white  arms  lovingly  about  her  neck,  and 
receiving  her  kiss  in  return.  Helpless  little  creature  ! 
It  will  be  long  indeed,  ere  he  will  realize  a  mother's 
self-denying  tenderness,  her  anxiety  about  his  future, 
her  pain  when  he  suffers,  her  regret  when  he  does 
wrong,  and  her  happiness  when  he  does  well. 

She  does  not  tell  him  now,  that  with  aching  head  and 
weary  fingers,  she  has  watched  him  through  long  days 
and  nights  of  illness,  when  death  seemed  hovering  ov^r 
his  pillow,  ready  to  snatch  him  away,  if  even  for  one 
moment  she  forgot  her  charge ;  and  with  what  agonizing 
earnestness  she  prayed,  "  0  !  Father,  spare  him,  if  con 
sistent  with  Thy  will !" 

She  does  not  tell  him  now,  for  he  is  too  young  to  com 
prehend,  even  in  a  measure,  the  height  and  breadth  and 
depth  of  maternal  love. 

He  only  knows  her  bosom  is  his  pillow,  her  arms  his 
shield,  and  that  from  her  hands  his  hourly  wants  are 
supplied. 

But  if  it  comes  to  be  his  lot  to  gaze  upon  her  sweet 
face,  cold  in  the  drapery  of  death,  to  miss  her  smile, 
and  long  in  vain  for  her  caress ;  then,  when  others  part 
his  silken  hair,  without  the  accustomed  kiss ;  when 
others  take  him  coldly  by  the  hand,  and  lead  him  to  his 


"THE   ANGELS   WITH    US    UNAWARES."  203 

enidlc-bed,  and  bear  his  infant  prayer,  as  a  mere  act  of. 
duty;  then,  while  their  careless  " good-night"  is  still 
chiming  in  his  ears  as  a  bitter  mockery ;  then  he  will 
fling  out  his  tiny  arms,  and  clasp  the  empty  air  in  search 
of  that  soft  hand  which  lingered  so  lovingly  about  his 
pillow,  and  realize  that  "  an  angel"  has  been  with  him 
44  unawares." 

"Thank  you,  father!"  says  the  young  girl,  bounding 
away  with  her  hand  clasped  upon  the  means  with  which 
to  purchase  some  elegant  article  of  dress,  forgetting  in 
her  wild  happiness  how  much  she  is  already  indebted  to 
him.  Little  does  she  realize  the  toil  and  anxieties  of 
that  noble-hearted  man,  standing  up  as  a  tower  of  de 
fence  between  his  helpless  ones,  and  the  rude,  jostling 
crowd,  and  baring  his  own  broad  breast  to  all  life's 
pelting  storms,  content  if  he  can  but  shelter  them. 

"My  daughter."  There  is  a  meaning  in  those  words 
whose  depths  she  will  never  fathom  until  another  sen 
tence  falls  like  ice  upon  her  ear,  and  freezes  the  blood 
in  her  veins  :  "  He  is  dead  !" 

Then,  when  she  misses  his  kindly  greeting,  when  he 
no  longer  fills  her  pleading  hand ;  when  she  would  turn 
back  from  the  cold  friendships  of  the  world,  sick  at  heart 
for  the  love  she  has  wasted  upon  the  ungrateful ;  then, 
when  there  is  no  fond,  paternal  bosom,  to  which  she  may 
fly  in  her  day  of  adversity,  she  will  realize — 0  !  how 
bitterly! — that  "an  angel"  has  been  with  her  "una 
wares." 

"Would  I  had  now  a  father!"  bursts  from  her  quivrr- 
ing  lips,  as  she  remembers  nil  his  goodness;  and  fiho 
nerves  herself  anew  for  the  stern  conflict  of  life. 


294  "  THE    ANGELS    WITH    US    UNAWARES." 

"  My  brother  !"  The  fraternal  tie  may  be  loosened 
by  uiikindness,  or  remembered  lightly,  as  in  different 
paths  we  go  out  into  the  world,  each  struggling  for  indi 
vidual  success ;  but  there  are  times  when  that  word  calls 
up  a  gush  of  tenderness,  as  we  look  back  to  youth's 
halcyon  hours,  when  we  walked  hand  in  hand  with  him, 
who  held  us  by  an  earnest  clasp,  and  whose  kiss  was 
unpolluted  by  flattery  or  selfishness. 

We  may  have  thought  hardly  of  that  brother,  but  if 
the  stranger  dares  to  whisper  aught  against  his  name 
how  the  indignant  blood  tingles  in  our  veins — stranger, 
beware ! 

He  lies  low  in  the  churchyard.  We  cover  his  faults 
with  the  mantle  of  charity,  and  comparing  his  love  of 
long-ago  with  the  world's  fictitious  friendships,  say  his 
errors  were  of  the  head  rather  than  the  heart;  he  was, 
indeed,  as  uan  augel  unawares." 

The  husband  goes  before  the  wife,  smoothing  the  rough 
places  and  pushing  aside  the  thorns  from  her  path ;  ho 
shields  her  from  the  stare  of  impertinence,  and  blunts 
the  edge  of  every  pain  and  grief  by  those  soft,  balmy 
utterances,  known  only  in  the  vocabulary  of  affection  ; 
and  she  leans  upon  his  strong  arm,  unaware  of  all  his 
self-denial  for  her  sake. 

But  when  that  strong  arm  is  palsied  in  death,  when 
the  eyes  which  beamed  on  her  so  lovingly  are  closed 
for  ever,  and  the  lips  which  never  chided  her  are  pa!e 
and  mute — then  she  realizes  his  worth  as  she  never 
could  before  and  gazes  with  tearful  earnestness  into  the 
blue  abyss,  as  if  to  arrest  those  "  lessening  winga*'  in 
their  upward  flight,  and  whisper  in  the  ear  r/f  the  dtf- 


"THE    ANGELS    WITH    US    UNAWARES."  295 

parted  the  thankfulness,  which  until  now  had  found  no 
utterance. 

The  wife!  There  is  no  treachery  there — no  deceit. 
How  her  smile  of  welcome  dissipates  the  cloud  of  care 
which  has  clung  to  her  husband's  brow  all  day  !  How 
softly  she  parts  away  the  toil-dampened  locks  from  his 
temples,  and  kisses  away  their  last  lingering  throb  of 
pain! 

The  heart,  man  knows,  is  all  his  own — is  to  him  a 
priceless  gem ;  but  never. until  those  orbs,  which  turn  to 
his  with  love  and  reverence,  are  hidden  away  in  the 
gloom  of  the  narrow  house,  does  he  appreciate  as  he 
should  the  presence  of  her  who  was  sent  of  heaven — "  an 
angel  unawares." 

That  friend — a  creature  of  blended  weaknesses  and 
virtues — not  all  selfishness,  not  all  disinterestedness; 
but  the  pressure  of  his  hand  is  earnest,  his  smile  is  not 
a  lie.  You  have  trusted  him,  and  he  has  not  betrayed 
you.  You  have  gone  to  him  in  the  hour  of  trial,  and 
he  has  advised  you  for  your  best  good.  He  has  spoken 
your  name  with  respect,  and  cheered  you  with  words  of 
hope  when  your  heart  was  faint  almost  unto  death  ;  in 
him  you  have  a  priceless  treasure.  Well  may  you  bow 
your  head  and  weep  if  he  has  fallen  before  you  in  the 
battle  of  life ;  for  there  will  be  times  in  the  future  when 
you  will  yearn  to  lay  your  head  upon  his  shoulder,  and 
pour  into  his  sympathetic  ear  your  tale  of  wrongs  and 
griefs  ;  and  then  will  come  again  the  ronsciousncss  that 
he  has  pass-ed  away,  and,  God  help  you !  you  search  in 
vain  through  life  for  his  lining  counterpart. 

There  are  "  angels  with  us  unawares"  in  all  the  reU- 


206  SABBATH   EVE. 

tions  of  life,  but,  alas  for  our  stupidity !  we  seldom 
realize  their  presence  until  we  u  see"  their  "  white  wingr 
lessening  up  the  skies." 


SABBATH  EVE. 

IN  beauty  sinks  the  parting  sun, 

As  evening  shades  appear, 
And  beauteous  as  dreams  of  heaven, 

The  nightly  train  draws  near. 
Bright  earth,  with  all  her  glorious  thinj^f, 
Sleeps  calmly  'neath  the  spirit's  wings, 
Reflecting  back  bright  hues  above, 
Rejoicing  in  a  flood  of  love. 

The  blue  isles  of  the  boundless  deep, 
The  heaven's  blue  arch  on  high, — 
The  flowers  that  gaze  upon  the  skies— 
The  bright  streams  flowing  by 
Are  teeming  with  religion — deep 
O'er  earth  and  sea  its  glories  sleep, 
And  mingle  with  the  starry  rays, 
Like  the  soft  light  of  parted  days. 

The  heart  is  filled  with  glorious  thoughts, 

With  transport  beating  wild, 
As  thought  ascends  up  to  the  shrino 

Of  glory  undefilcd. 
And  holy  breathings  from  the  heart, 
Like  blessed  angels  ever  start, 
And  bind— for  earth's  fond  ties  are  riven— 
Our  spirits  to  the  gates  of  heaven. 


SPARE   MOMENTS. 

KNOWLEDGE  is  power  !  And  this  power  every  young 
man  who  makes  a  £ood  use  of  his  spare  moments  may 
obtain.  These  sparo  moments  accumulate  into  hours 
every  clay,  and  the  further  aggregate  makes  days  and 
weeks  in  each  year — days  and  weeks  that  might  be 
devoted  to  an  earnest  and  successful  improvement  of 
the  mind.  We  introduce  with  these  few  words  the  fol 
lowing  sketch : 

A  lean,  awkward  boy  came  one  morning  to  the  door 
of  the  principal  of  a  celebrated  school,  and  asked  to  see 
him.  The  servant  eyed  his  mean  clothes,  and  thinking 
Le  looked  more  like  a  beggar  than  anything  else,  told 
him  to  go  around  to  the  kitchen.  The  boy  did  as  ho 
was  bidden,  and  soon  appeared  at  the  back  door. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  Mr. ,"  said  he. 

"  You  want  a  breakfast,  more  like,"  said  the  servant 
girl,  "and  I  can  give  you  that  without  troubling  him." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  boy,  "  I  should  have  no  objec 
tions  to  a  bit  of  bread,  but  I  should  like  to  sec  Mr. , 

if  he  can  see  me." 

"Some  old  clothes,  may  be  you  want,"  remarked  the 
gervant,  again  eyeing  the  boy  patched  trousers.  "  I 
guess  he  has  none  to  spars,  he  gives  away  a  sight;"  ami 
without  minding  the  bDy's  request,  she  went  away  abc'H 
her  work. 


288  SPARE    MOMENTS. 

"  Can  I  see  Mr. ?"  again  asked  the  boy,  after 

finishing  his  bread  and  butter.  - 

"  Well,  he's  in  tho  library;  if  he  must  be  disturbed  he 
must ;  but  he  does  like  to  be  alone  sometimes,"  said  ihe 
girl  in  a  peevish  tone.  She  seemed  to  think  it  very 
foolish  to  admit  such  an  ill-looking  fellow  into  her  mas 
ter's  presence ;  however,  she  wiped  her  hands,  and  bade 
him  follow.  Opening  the  library  door,  she  said, 

"  Here's  somebody,  sir,  who  is  dreadful  anxious  to  see 
you,  and  so  I  let  him  in." 

I  don't  know  how  the  boy  introduced  himself,  or  how 
he  opened  his  business,  but  I  know  that  after  talking 
awhile,  the  principal  put  aside  the  volume  which  he  was 
studying,  and  took  up  some  Greek  books  and  began  to 
examine  the  new  comer.  The  examination  lasted  some 
time.  Every  question  which  the  principal  asked,  the 
boy  answered  as  readily  as  could  be. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  exclaimed  the  principal,  "you 
certainly  do  well !"  looking  at  the  boy  from  head  to  foot 
over  his  spectacles.  "  Why,  my  boy,  where  did  you 
pick  up  so  much?" 

"In  my  spare  moments"  answered  the  boy. 

In  that  answer  how  much  was  included  !  Few  become 
either  learned  or  eminent,  who  do  not  make  a  profitable 
use  of  their  spare  moments;  for,  if  these  are  wasted  in 
self-indulgence,  they  enervate  the  mind,  rendering  it 
less  efficient  in  its  tasks  when  duty  requires  it  to  net.  It 
is  generally  believed  that  the  mind  gains  strength,  after 
severe  labour,  by  seasons  of  entire  inactivity.  There  is, 
we  think,  an  error  in  this.  More  real  strength,  we  are 
Bure,  will  be  acquired  by  the  employment  of  new  facul 
ties,  while  those  needing  repose  are  permitted  to  rest. 


THK  BURDOCK  AND  THE  VIOLET. 

IT  came  up  in  the  garden,  that  burdock,  just  behin.l 
the  violets  and  close  to  the  rose  bushes.  It  was  in  the 
corner  close  up  to  the  (parse,  anii  we  said  we  would  let 
it  stay,  and  it  should  have  all  the  kind  care  and  gentle 
attention  that  the  roses  and  the  violets  had.  Roadside 
burdocks  we  knew  were  coarse,  vile  things,  with  their 
dusty  leaves  and  their  sharp  burs  ever  adhering  to  the 
passers-by,  and  we  would  like  to  see  what  a  garden  bur 
dock  would  be  like;  whether  it  would  be  bright,  and 
fresh,  and  delicate  for  growing  in  such  sweet  company, 
arid  so  we  were  merciful  and  let  it  stay. 

And  it  grew  among  the  roses  and  the  violets,  and 
gentle  hands  watered  it  often,  and  the  earth  was  softened 
about  its  roots  just  as  for  its  fairer  neighbours ;  but  it 
waited  not  for  them  in  its  progress  upward.  It  shot  up 
rank  and  tall,  and  its  wide  leaves  spread  all  abroad  and 
threatened  to  cover  i»c  «na  owcure  its  less  assuming 
neighbours.  And  at  iu»t  tno  Mossoms  came.  They 
were  large  and  strong,  and  armed  with  keen  thorns,  and 
the  flowers  changed  into  burs,  and  they  reached  out 
their  thorny  fingers  and  grasped  the  passers-by,  and  the 
white  dust  lay  thick  on  the  rough  woolly  leaves,  arid 
the  seeds  flew  out  on  the  wind  to  seek  lodging-places, 
where  another  year  a  new  crop  should  find  foothold  and 
sustenance. 

A  little  violet  crept  up  through  the  fence  and  looked 


300  THE  BURDOCK  AND   THE  VIOLET. 

up  brightly  beside  the  hard  and  dusty  street,  and  we 
said,  we  will  let  it  grow  there,  and  so  it  grew.  Water  it 
had  none,  except  the  celestial  fountains;  care  it  had  none, 
except  from  sunshine  and  sweet  dews  and  the  kindly 
glances  of  the  passers-by ;  yet  there  it  lived  and  bloomed 
sweetly,  "wasting  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air."  Its 
green  leaves  were  as  green  as  its  cherished  kindrcl  of 
the  flower-bed,  and  its  blue  eyes  reflected  as  hopefully 
as  the  blue  of  the  summer  sky. 

So  we  said  to  ourselves,  Outward  circumstances  and 
mere  surroundings  are  but  little  after  all ;  and  if  change 
to  nature  comes,  it  must  be  a  work  deep  inwrought  by 
other  =  than  earthly  hands. 


THF   ENT» 


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